A Nice Place to Visit
by kedgeree
Summary: What happens when the world's only consulting detective, an army doctor, a detective inspector, and the British government find themselves sharing a holiday villa. Love. Sex. Music. Wine. Pyjamas. French. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

_This story is a sequel to Revolutions, Resolutions, and a Happy New Year._

* * *

**Chapter One**

The late afternoon sun glinted gold through three glasses of beer on the café table, making them glow as if lit from within. Greg Lestrade stretched his legs out, picked up his Kronenbourg 1664, and raised it in a toast to John and Sherlock. "Well done, both of you. As usual."

"Cheers, Greg," John lifted his glass in return. "And that's a hell of a right hook you've got! Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Greg chuckled and flexed the memory of knuckles impacting jaw out of his hand. "I wanted to do that since we first laid eyes on the bastard," he confessed with a toothy grin. "Glad he finally gave me a good reason. Made this whole trip worthwhile."

Sherlock smiled in apparent appreciation of Greg's violent sentiments and took a swallow of his lager. Greg noticed him shift in his seat, subtle as the movement was, and re-position his left hand under the table at the same time. Presumed destination: John's thigh. John's expression didn't change, but he shifted his chair in turn, a little less subtly, closer to Sherlock's. The low hum of conversation, primarily in French, of fellow café patrons and passersby on the wide tree-lined _Cours Mirabeau_ was soothing, as if there were a common agreement amongst the residents, students, and tourists to relax en masse into the warm breeze.

"Well, we were glad to have you in on this one, Greg. Right, Sherlock?"

"Mm," Sherlock intoned agreeably.

"I thought Mycroft would have been in touch by now," John said around another swallow of beer. "He hasn't called Sherlock, though." He raised his eyebrows at Greg. "Or you?"

A sharp peal of laughter rang out form a nearby table. Greg glanced away and shrugged. "No." No, he wouldn't be the one Mycroft phoned. His communications with Mycroft had tapered off gradually since that giddy New Year's Eve spent in one another's company and finally dwindled to nothing. He'd been gobsmacked when he received a request from the Mycroft to join Sherlock and John on a case in Provence, off the record, outside his jurisdiction. It had come as a text, late in the evening, and he was grateful he'd been at home where nobody else was around to witness how quickly and how high he'd leapt at the chance, fingers fumbling eagerly at the keypad on his phone in his haste to reply. He cleared his throat and steered his wandering thoughts away from Mycroft and back to his current companions. "Thought of a blog title yet, John?"

"Yeah. _An Aix Parrot_," John deadpanned, but joined in quickly when Greg started to giggle.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them suspiciously. "It's not even accurate. The parrot's still alive, safe and sound with her owner."

Greg giggled harder as John leaned sideways to briefly nudge his shoulder against Sherlock's. "Monty Python, Sherlock. I do keep saying you're missing out."

"Again?" Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed his weariness dramatically. "I'm _so_ pleased you've chosen to document my life's work through a series of horrifying puns and obscure references to outdated sketch comedy."

"It's my pleasure," John said affably with another little shoulder bounce.

Greg snickered into his glass, then shook his head. "Seriously, Sherlock, that was some impressive deduction, even by your standards. That bird sounded like it was just rattling off nonsense…the way you found the pattern in all that—well, you'd have made a good code breaker."

Sherlock waved the compliment away with a dismissive gesture, but his face brightened with satisfaction. John looked up at him with undisguised affection and pride.

Greg felt a twinge of envy watching them together, and not for the first time. He envied the connection between them, so obvious to everyone around them long before it became obvious to one another. He'd hoped for it in dating, in his now-failed marriage, and at least for one night—madly enough—with Mycroft Holmes. He supposed what John and Sherlock had found in each other just wasn't in the cards for everyone, though, and that was all right. He loved his work, he was generally a happy bloke, and he had no real cause for complaint, did he now? And no reason whatsoever to dwell on thoughts of Mycroft Holmes.

"Very impressive," John murmured his agreement with what seemed to be some significance of tone. Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's and darkened noticeably.

Greg cleared his throat. There was also no reason whatsoever to be reminded of the way Mycroft's eyes had lingered on his in the back of his car in the London night. "You two headed back to London in the morning, then?"

"Hm?" John dragged his attention away from Sherlock. "Oh, er, yeah. You too?"

"I suppose so. Last night, we should celebrate."

"Greg…" John fidgeted with the rim of his glass, his eyes drifting back to Sherlock's. "I hope you don't mind, mate, but since it is our last night here…."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth curled up and the flex of his upper arm indicated his hand's movement underneath the table.

"Say no more…" Greg waved them away with a smirk, averting his eyes from the implied location of Sherlock's hand, obscured by the table though it was. "…please."

Sherlock was already standing. John grinned at Greg apologetically. "Yeah, we'll see you later, then. Right, Sherlock?" He gave Sherlock a meaningful nudge.

Sherlock glanced away from John long enough to plaster a ludicrously bright, falsely polite smile on his face and said, "Have a _lovely_ evening, Lestrade!"

Greg sighed once, then shook his head and laughed under his breath as the pair hurried away in the direction of their hotel. When the waitress passed by again, he ordered another beer in his poorly-accented French. Try as his _grand-père_ had to Gallicize him, he had never found an affinity for the language.

While he was waiting, pondering what to do with himself for the rest of the evening, his mobile chimed. His mouth hung open for a moment when he saw the sender's name. Well…think of the devil. Greg licked his lips and pressed the button to read the message, apparently sent simultaneously to himself, John, and Sherlock.

#

While I would congratulate you on a successful resolution to the case, there has been a minor development requiring further attention. I've made arrangements for the three of you to remain in Provence a little longer to offer your assistance. I will arrive in the morning to provide details. -MH

#

Greg's stomach fluttered as he read and re-read the words _arrive in the morning_. He drew in a long breath and picked up the fresh glass of beer he hadn't notice arrive.

Memories welled in his mind of a soft, throaty laugh, crinkling blue-grey eyes, fine auburn hair, and a row of small, neat waistcoat buttons. He took a long, deep breath. There was no point in trying to convince himself otherwise. Whatever the circumstances, he was very much looking forward to seeing Mycroft Holmes again.

xxx

"Say it, John," Sherlock demanded as John walked him backwards until his back was against the wall of their hotel room. John held him there firmly with one hand in the center of his chest, leaving his other hand free to roam the front of Sherlock's trousers.

"You're _amazing_."

Sherlock made a low, rumbling sound and pressed his hips sharply toward John's hand. It had been almost three weeks since the case started. For Sherlock, and subsequently for John, that meant almost three weeks of abstinence. John had initially resigned himself to Sherlock's ascetic-minded classification of sex, along with food and sleep, as a distraction from The Work. By the fourth case, however, John had discovered a few ways to turn the situation to his advantage. He allowed himself a wicked little smile.

With the case concluded, John had only to hold out his palm for Sherlock to grind wantonly against, so eager was his own private genius to get off. That might do for a start, but John had _plans_ for the evening.

"Sherlock." John pulled his hand back from the heat of Sherlock's erection, and Sherlock made a frustrated noise of protest. John gave him one firm, swift kiss on the mouth. "Get the lube. And a flannel." When Sherlock tried to pull John back into a deeper kiss, John pushed him away and gave him a look of reproof. "Now."

Sherlock shuddered against him and then launched himself into their bathroom, returning quickly with an already-opened bottle in one hand and a damp flannel in the other. John shoved him back into place against the wall and unzipped his flies roughly. When John reached in and curved his fingers around Sherlock, Sherlock gasped and flung his head backward into the wall with a loud thump. John smiled a trail of kisses down the tender skin of his exposed throat, felt the vibrations of Sherlock's sounds of pleasure against his lips. He nipped gently, teasing out more little rumbling groans and puffs of breath until Sherlock's hips were twitching almost in time with his pulse.

"Lube," John instructed, tugging Sherlock's trousers and pants down to his upper thighs and pushing his shirt up. "On yourself. Hurry up." Sherlock complied hastily, lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration at the simple task. John took him in hand again immediately and without delicacy, just fast, rough strokes.

"John," Sherlock demanded, his mouth wet and open and his thighs straining urgently.

John nudged his face up to Sherlock's neck again to whisper into his ear, certain and sincere. "You're amazing. Sherlock. You're _amazing_."

With an agonized groan, Sherlock spilled warm, wet heat over John's hand. He clutched blindly at John's hair with one hand and bunched his flannel up in the other as John pulled him through the pulses of his orgasm. John kissed his neck, his jaw, everywhere he could reach while Sherlock's breathing calmed, then drew the flannel from Sherlock's fingers to mop up.

Blinking hazily, Sherlock pawed at the button of John's jeans, but John batted his hand away. Sherlock groped at him again, clumsily. "Wha 'bout you?"

John kissed him, slowly this time, tasting his tongue, because he loved this part so much—when Sherlock was fuzzy and dazed and barely verbal after he came, and all because of John. "Plenty of time for me," John assured him, rubbing a hand over the enticing angle of Sherlock's exposed hip. "We have all night, and that was just your _first_ orgasm."

"First?"

"First. You know how this works," John chided him playfully, tugging gently at a springy curl. "We agreed. If you can impress me on a case, then you earn a reward. So tonight…as your reward, well done you…we're going to try a little experiment. We're going to see how many orgasms you can have."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in confusion. "When did we agree that?"

"While I was having a damn good wank planning it."

"But I always impress you on cases."

"Yes, you do."

"Oh. _Oh._" Sherlock's eyes sparked. "I see. So…it's an experiment?"

"It is." John put his best scientific expression on. "I've brought a lab notebook. And gloves."

"John," Sherlock gripped his shoulders and looked at him gravely. "You're _perfect_."

"I know. Now go drink some water. You'll need to stay hydrated."

"Yes, Doctor," Sherlock answered dutifully, running a fingernail lightly down the side of John's throat. John shivered in anticipation.

xxx

When the knock sounded on his hotel room door, Greg waited three long breaths to collect himself before he opened it. Mycroft Holmes stood in the yellow light of the hotel hallway, looking calm, composed, impeccably-groomed and untouchable in a lightweight, pale grey bespoke suit. A sizzle ran down Greg's spine when his eyes met Mycroft's and a fresh cascade of images from their evening together tumbled into his mind. Mycroft leaning over Greg's tiny kitchen table, shirt sleeves rolled up and smiling boyishly. Mycroft gesturing animatedly, cheeks flushed, with a smear of strawberry pie filling stuck to his index finger, as he rhapsodized about a performance of _Tosca_ at the Royal Opera House.

This Mycroft nodded politely, his face cool and carefully unreadable. "Inspector Lestrade. How nice to see you again."

Greg's, no, make that _Inspector Lestrade's_, teeth clenched. That was it, then? He wanted to step forward, grab him, shake him, shake that _other_ Mycroft out of him, the one with the shy, laughing eyes. But _clearly_ he was being ridiculous and…and _pathetic_, hanging onto a single night _five months ago_. All they'd done, really, was talk and share a dessert, for God's sake. It wasn't as if anything had happened—anything to hang a hope on. Flirtatious glances, lingering smiles, a quick, electrifying brush of long fingers over the back of his hand—those things were not promises. Yeah, well, he knew a brush-off when he got one, whether it was from a friend or…something else. So sod this…pining. _Sod_ it.

He deliberately relaxed into his most nonchalant smile and extended his hand to shake. "Mycroft. It's good to see you, too."

Mycroft's eyelids flickered to his proffered hand, but before he could take it, John Watson emerged from the room he shared with Sherlock next door with a boisterous call over his shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock!" His hair was still wet from his morning shower, and he looked sleepy but cheerful. "Morning, Greg. Mycroft." There was an indistinct and resentful mutter and the sound of a drawer being slammed shut from within the room behind him.

"Morning, John," Greg greeted him in return. "Restful evening, was it?"

John gave him a remarkably innocent smile as Sherlock shambled out of the hotel room looking similarly sleepy and shower-damp. He didn't look quite as cheerful as his partner, though, and he turned a frosty glare toward his brother. "I'm _so_ looking forward to hearing what you're doing here, Mycroft."

"Good morning, John." Mycroft did not acknowledge Sherlock, but turned back to Greg. "May we use your room for a brief conversation, Inspector?"

Greg shrugged and stepped back to hold his hotel room door open in invitation, and the three other men brushed past him. Sherlock immediately assumed a disinterested pose gazing out the balcony doors while John took an attentive seat at the room's writing desk and retrieved a small notepad from the back pocket of his jeans. Greg sat down on the edge of his bed and Mycroft arranged himself stiffly in front of the mirror-paneled white wardrobe.

"Well?" Sherlock insisted without turning away from the window.

"Sherlock, I appreciate your efforts toward the successful resolution of this rather bizarre incident. I did suspect you would communicate well with our key witness."

Sherlock smirked over his shoulder.

"I've relayed the data you provided to my _friend_ at the Ministry of the Interior, who has also expressed her particular gratitude. Unfortunately, as I mentioned in my earlier message, there are some open questions that have arisen as a result of her analysis." Greg noticed that although Mycroft's gaze drifted between Sherlock and John as he spoke, he seemed to be avoiding or just disinterested in looking at Greg. "Due to the sensitive nature of these questions and my personal relationship with the Ministry, I felt it wise to attend this final phase of the investigation in person. However, as you were responsible for the leg work, you would have my sincere gratitude if you were to remain available whilst I conduct closing conversations with the Directorate and the local constabulary."

"But not the parrot?" John asked.

Greg grinned at John while Sherlock chimed back in, turning toward Mycroft with narrowed eyes. "Why? _Our_ work here is over. I'm not feeling motivated to continue my stay here for your," he waved his hand airily, "extremely and suspiciously vague reasons."

"Ah," Mycroft smiled at having been given his cue. "As _incentive_, I would be delighted to invite you to be my guests at a small villa outside of town I have at my disposal. The expenses would be mine, of course, and you would have use of the chef's services and your own cars. I've taken the liberty of having some additional attire and personal effects sent down for your use."

Sherlock finally turned around. "Your _guests_?" he asked incredulously.

Mycroft shrugged. He still hadn't looked at Greg. "Think of it as a well-earned holiday. Or a working holiday, if you prefer."

"What do you think we've been doing _here_?" Sherlock huffed, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Not _exactly_ a holiday," John murmured, earning a disapproving glance from Sherlock.

"Personal effects?" Greg asked dubiously.

Mycroft finally glanced at him, completely expressionlessly. "Yes. For all of you."

"For how long?" John asked with a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"I expect my business will be concluded within one week," Mycroft answered John in a mild tone. "Certainly no more than two."

Sherlock was now watching Mycroft closely, his head tilted to one side. "Interesting."

Mycroft turned away from Sherlock. "I think you'll find the villa quite comfortable."

"I think we should stay," John announced decisively.

"_What_?" Sherlock threw an incredulous look at him. "You want a holiday with _Mycroft_ and _Lestrade_?"

"No," John said evenly, picking at a thread on his shirt sleeve. "I want a holiday with _you._ And I'm not likely to get you to bother with one any other way, am I?"

Sherlock drew back, subdued and frowning.

"And I understand," Mycroft interjected primly, "that you have been asked to leave _this_ hotel due to…noise complaints?"

John blinked. "There were noise complaints?"

"Yeah, one of them was from me," Greg nodded. He thought for a moment that Mycroft's eyes twinkled at him appreciatively.

"_What_?"

"You're _loud_. Certain people with rooms next to yours were trying to sleep," Greg reproached him sternly.

"I'm not loud," Sherlock scowled.

"Yes, you are," Greg assured him.

"Yes, you are," John nodded. His cheeks were slightly pink.

"I really didn't need to hear some of those…sounds," Greg said mournfully.

Mycroft adjusted his shirt collar and cleared his throat. "As evocative as this conversation is becoming, perhaps we could at this point adjourn and move on to the villa? I have a car waiting."

Greg frowned at Mycroft. "I have to get back to work."

"No. Your schedule has been cleared," Mycroft said smoothly.

Greg's eyebrows raised. "Well…I suppose…if you really need me here…."

"We do need you." This time Mycroft's eyes lingered on Greg.

xxx

Mycroft's villa was approximately thirty minutes north of Aix, nestled on a hillside at the base of the verdant Chaîne des Côtes mountains. As their car passed through a foreboding wrought iron gate in a tall stone fence surrounding the property, John had a moment of concern about whether the villa would be as comfortable as Mycroft had led them to believe. He hoped it wasn't full of enormous, formal marble columns and rooms where you weren't allowed to speak. He distractedly fingered the seam of Sherlock's trouser leg as he tried to peer around him out of the car window.

"Oh!" Greg said, obviously delighted, as they pulled up the white-pebbled drive and got a view of the main house. Mycroft, typing busily on his mobile phone, lowered his head a little further, but John thought he was smiling.

As they piled out of the back of Mycroft's hired car, John felt obliged to agree with Greg's assessment. The villa was a weathered and multi-roofed stone farmhouse with bright sky blue shutters, large and rambling yet welcoming. The front garden was shaded by enormous plane trees that John guessed must be a century old, and the air smelt faintly of herbs.

Greg turned in a slow circle on the lawn, frankly goggling. "It's…wow. It's like my grandfather's house!"

"_This_ is like your grandfather's house?" John repeated quizzically. "Have you been holding out on us?"

"Well, except, you know…his was smaller," Greg conceded with a wry grin. "He had a place in the country, my sister and I went every summer and Christmases when we were kids. Stone farmhouse, big trees. It probably wasn't much, but I remember it more like this. Grand and sort of…magical."

"Lucky you, then!" John grinned back at the boyishness coming out in Greg's face. Sherlock stood to the side of the car, scanning the house and front garden, as a member of the house staff began carrying in their bags. "Well, Mycroft, I have to say this is lovely," John acknowledged.

"I'm glad you like it, John," Mycroft said pleasantly, nodding his acceptance of the compliment. John thought he looked rather self-satisfied at their approval, but then, when didn't he look self-satisfied? "Do come inside."

Mycroft offered them a brief description of the villa's layout, security, staff, and twelve acres of grounds, and then left them free to visit their rooms and explore, saying he needed to attend to a conversation with the chef about dinner.

Sherlock wandered up the curving wooden staircase while John and Greg rambled around the lower floors, calling to each other whenever they made an interesting new discovery.

"Greg, look at the fireplace."

"It's almost summer."

"But still, look at it. What's that mantle made from?"

"Look out that window. Did you see the pool?"

"Did you see the _bar_?"

"Hey, John, in here…there's a billiards room!"

"Look at those beams."

"Is that an _original_?"

"How the hell would I know? Ask Mycroft."

They peered together into a dark-walled media room with three rows of tiered seating facing an enormous cinema-style projection screen.

"Blimey," said Greg, looking up open-mouthed at the arched black ceiling, where tiny inset lights twinkled like a field of stars. A few of them looked suspiciously like the designer had arranged them to look like constellations.

John settled back into one of the deep leather reclining seats. "I'm never leaving this room."

There was a huff of laughter from the doorway as Sherlock joined them. He sauntered over to John's chair and leaned over to murmur in his ear, "Our en suite has a whirlpool bath."

John chuckled and reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "All right, you convinced me. I'll leave, but just for baths. Long baths. I'm assuming it's large enough for two…?"

"Oi, settle down," Greg said, snapping his fingers at them. "We just got here. Let's see the rest."

"You like this place, too, don't you?" John nudged Sherlock as they wandered back down the wooden-floored hallway behind Greg. "You do!"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "It's fine. But my approval is hardly the point."

"What do you mean?"

"Look in here!" Greg exclaimed, swerving through a wide doorway into a spacious salon, bright with sunlight filtering in through two ceiling-high Palladian windows. "Look at this pi—Oh." Greg stopped short and John almost walked into his back. "There you are."

Greg had spotted Mycroft, evidently returned from the kitchen and now seated cross-legged in a high-backed white chair with his leather briefcase open on a table beside him. He had shed his suit jacket and even his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. John hadn't even been certain the man and the suit were made of separate parts, but apparently he could in fact be disassembled. The waistcoat, at least, remained. "Yes," Mycroft confirmed smoothly with a delicate arch of one brow. "Here I am."

Greg cleared his throat. "I was going to say…look at the piano." An ebony-finish parlor grand Steinway piano was set under a high arch at one end of the room.

"You play the piano?" John asked.

Greg grinned self-consciously at John. "Nah, but me granddad used to. We'd all sing carols at Christmas."

"_Mycroft_ plays," Sherlock said loftily. "No doubt he wanted to show off—" Sherlock dropped the affected expression, pointing in what John recognized as honest surprise. "That's my violin!"

"Obviously," Mycroft's lips twitched as he stood and crossed the room to the side table where Sherlock's violin case rested. He placed a long, pale hand on it delicately. "I had it sent down along with the rest of your things."

"Are we going to have a family sing-along?" Sherlock asked mockingly. "How sweet."

John squeezed his eyes at partner's ever-rude tone, exasperated. "Sherlock!"

"Oh, please, are we all still pretending we don't know why we're really here?"

Mycroft's face froze, suddenly drained of color. John looked up at Sherlock warily.

"What's that?" Greg asked blithely.

"Have neither of you figured it out? We're not here for the _case_. This entire production is for _your_ benefit, Lestrade."

"Me?" Greg blinked his incomprehension.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock grinned, puffing out his chest in the spotlight of their attention. "Not the original case, of course, that was legitimate. But did it need Mycroft's personal follow-up? Hardly. And what are _you_ doing here at all, Lestrade? I clearly don't require your 'handling' any longer, yet you are once again dispatched to my side as a _personal_ favor to Mycroft. So you feel valuable, needed. And then your reward, a holiday at a _romantic_ villa? One that reminds you of a favorite boyhood home? With a lovely piano, and my violin provided to me so accommodatingly? How _thoughtful_ Mycroft must be! Tsk, John and I know better, and so should you by now, Lestrade. Mycroft isn't thoughtful unless he has an agenda, and at the top of my dear brother's current agenda is _obviously_ an attempt to impress _you_. Not that he need go to such lengths, judging by the way you can't seem to take your eyes off him when he's in the room. And, yes, of course I noticed your little encounter at New Year's. Enjoy that strawberry tart, the two of you?" Sherlock paused for breath, beaming, and finally noticed the unholy silence that had descended on the room during his speech. His zealous expression faded away as he took in three similarly stricken expressions, wide-eyed. "What?"

Silence.

Mycroft tapped the violin case gently. "I thought that without the demands of case work to occupy your attention, Sherlock, you might enjoy having your violin here." He lifted his chin and said very softly, "If you will excuse me." He walked slowly from the room.

Greg watched him go, mouth slightly agape. "Yeah. Um. Me too. I'll just…goodnight then." He slouched into the morning sun in the hallway, chewing on his lower lip.

"Sherlock," John growled in the Absolutely-Not-Good voice.

* * *

xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Mycroft did not spend the rest of the day _hiding_ in the villa's library. He had important work to do, messages to check and relay, international incidents to plan and thwart. Things he was good at. He called the house manager to provide new instructions for dinner and supper, as his previous vision of a comfortable communal meal seemed unlikely at this point. After a quick and unsatisfying game of computer chess, he rose from the faux Louis XIV _fauteuil_ chair and paced the length of the room several times. He crossed to stand in front of the mahogany bookshelves, at first just reading the titles, then running his fingers lightly along the spines of one row of books, many of which appeared to be rare or early editions. He inhaled the scent of time and timelessness that clung to them—a scent that was usually a comfort to him, but today it just smelled like dust. Tracing the faded burgundy script of the title on one spine, he wondered whether Sherlock had retained any memory of reading _Le Petit Prince_. He had taken a great deal of pleasure as a boy in questioning the Comte de Saint-Exupéry's premises, Mycroft recalled with some pride.

His removed his hand from the book and confined it to his trouser pocket.

There was no sense hiding, or rather _working_, in here all day simply because of an awkward scene…and he needed the loo soon. What were his house guests doing now? He resented not knowing with certainty, felt isolated and disadvantaged without his usual sources of surveillance and information. He refused to _ask_ any of the staff. Both lack of information and indication of one's true priorities were vulnerabilities, and there were no vulnerabilities too small to be exploited—Mycroft had learnt that lesson very well from both sides of the transaction.

He made a stealthy trip to the nearest toilet, vigilant for any sign of his guests. Once his bladder was relieved, he padded down the hallway, peering into the salon and dining room and kitchen, listened at the doors of the media room and billiards room. The house was still and hollowly quiet. At the foot of the stairs leading to the bedrooms, he saw a maid cross the upstairs landing. He could hear the whisper of the fabric of her dark skirt as she moved. She did not look at him. Maybe they had all left. Maybe Greg had left. The villa, Mycroft's offering, inadequate, empty, and abandoned.

Mycroft returned to the library and, scowling at his weakness, phoned the driver on staff. Nicolas blandly assured him he had not conducted any guests from the property. Nor were either of the cars missing. Nor had any taxis been summoned to the villa. So...they had not left the grounds. At least not yet. It was clear, however, that no one was interested in seeking him out.

Mycroft retired to his room in the late afternoon with a copy of Voltaire's _Candide_-in the original French, of course. It had been quite some time since he had read it. Just after dusk, he called for the kitchen staff to send up a tray for his dinner, and arranged his room for dining while he waited. He had chosen the most austere of the villa's bedrooms for himself, but it was still quite comfortable. It had everything he needed, and the walls and fabrics were an unchallenging shade of ecru. He wondered if Greg liked his room. Mycroft had thought it the nicest in the villa, and well-suited to Greg—bright, comfortable, not too fussy, with earthy touches in the wood beams and stone walls. He'd had the fine Persian Abadeh rug from his room brought into Greg's in case the tile floors were too cool in the evenings.

He received his dinner tray, which included a beautifully-presented herb-rubbed steak with olives _cassées_ and sautéed mushrooms, a lovely Syrah, and pot de crème for dessert. It looked delicious and he was not going to concern himself with the calorie count. He was on holiday, after all. He ate in his padded armchair from his bedside table, which he had pulled in front of the casement window overlooking the back garden. He listened to the breeze stir the leaves of the plane trees, trying not to hear himself chewing.

After supper, he showered and changed into the flattering new blue silk pyjamas he had purchased and packed with optimistic thoughts. He smirked as he smoothed his hands over the soft fabric. Very optimistic indeed. How unlike him not to have a contingency plan. They were very comfortable pyjamas, he reminded himself sternly. He certainly could wear them with no ulterior motive beyond his own comfort. He climbed in between the cool sheets of his bed and picked up _Candide_.

He would not indulge in self-pity. Self-indulgence was what had led to this fiasco in the first place. The appropriate course of action was to realistically assess the current situation, identify a new goal, and formulate a strategy to achieve it. All right then. Current situation: mortified. New goal: attain Greg Lestrade's good opinion (see: original goal). Strategy: … Strategy: … Strategy: Sleep on it. He would come up with something. Strategy is what he _did_, for God's sake.

What he would _not_ do was spend the night hoping to hear footsteps in the hallway and a tentative knock at his bedroom door. He would not think of strong, tan, blunt-fingered hands against a soft white duvet or of bare feet on the wool of an intricately-patterned red and blue rug. He would not envision dark-lashed brown eyes warmed by affection.

The hallway outside his room remained appallingly quiet, and he eventually put his unopened book aside, curled around one of his pillows, and drifted into a miserable sleep.

xxx

Mycroft was still lying in bed blearily watching the morning sunlight dance on the leaves of the tree outside his window when his phone chimed from the bedside table. He flung a pale arm out from underneath his soft sheets to pick it up and read a text from John.

#  
Off out for the day!  
#

Ah, the exclamation point made it particularly jocund. He glared at it. How aggravatingly vague. Who was "off out?" John and Sherlock? John and Sherlock _and Greg_?

Mycroft showered and dressed in dark trousers, a pale yellow button-up, and a suit jacket. He felt a little naked without his usual waistcoat, but at the same time he acknowledged that he had been effectively denuded yesterday, so what was the point of the costume today?

He made his way to the dining room, where the chef had left a variety of breakfast offerings in covered silver serving dishes on the buffet—buttery croissants, cured ham, a selection of cheeses, roasted tomatoes, rich-smelling coffee. It didn't look as if anyone else had disturbed the display thus far. Although it seemed a shame to let it go to waste, he hadn't his usual morning appetite and selected only a plain croissant. He prepared a cup of tea and sat at the head of the long dining table.

Strategy. He still needed one, and quickly. He picked at his croissant, frowning. Was the situation truly as dire as he supposed? What had Sherlock _really_ said in his speech that was so incriminating? Suggested that Mycroft wished to impress Greg. Was that necessarily a _bad_ thing? After all, should one not try to impress one's guests? True, Sherlock had alluded to a potentially romantic attachment on Mycroft's part, but such things were open for interpretation, were they not? Perhaps Greg himself was uncertain as to the veracity of Sherlock's observations. If so, therein lay his advantage. The key would be to keep Greg balanced on the keen edge of uncertainty.

There was a sound in the doorway and Mycroft looked up to see the object of his musings walking into the room in a rumpled grey t-shirt with some sort of faded band logo, jeans, and sock feet. _You didn't leave!_ Greg's socks were bright orange. Dazzlingly bright. _What clothes do you sleep in? Or perhaps you don't sleep in any clothes at all. _"Good morning," he managed to say over the deafening sound of his heartbeat.

"Good morning," Greg returned pleasantly, helping himself to a coffee and _pain au chocolat_. His expression revealed no notable reaction to yesterday's unfortunate events. _What does your voice sound like when you've just woken up?_ He pulled back a chair noisily and sat down across from Mycroft. The stubble on his unshaven chin matched the salt-and-pepper color of his hair. Mycroft's fingertips itched to touch it. A thin leather cord circled his neck and disappeared into the neck of his t-shirt, and Mycroft wanted to find out what sort of charm dangled there against the warm skin underneath. _Stop this madness. _

Greg was licking little flakes of pastry crust from the tips of his fingers when Mycroft finally realized he was openly watching him in return, his eyebrows raised inquisitively.

Mycroft sighed and placed his tea cup carefully in its saucer. He lifted his chin. Showtime. "All right. You have questions."

Greg popped the last, large bite of pastry into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Mycroft folded his hands in a flawless simulation of serenity while Greg took a sip of coffee. "Just one."

He nodded beneficently for Greg to proceed.

"Would you like to join me for a hike?"

Mycroft blinked. "A hike?"

"Yeah. A hike. It's when you, you know, traverse a distance on foot. Outdoors. In nature." He gestured toward the window. "There's some of it out there now."

"I _know_ what a _hike_…that's your question? Would I like to go on a _hike_?"

Greg took another sip of coffee and offered him a small, amicable smile. "Yeah. I had a chat with Mateo—that's the groundskeeper—yesterday. He told me there's a good view past the gardens of a medieval town at the bottom of the valley."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and peered at Greg, grimacing. Was this some sort of joke? A hike. Mycroft Holmes…traipsing about ruggedly in nature. No. Most definitely not. "All right."

"Good. Can you be ready in about…" Greg checked his watch. "Twenty minutes?"

"I…yes."

"See you then." Greg gave him a jaunty wave, stood, and carried his breakfast dishes through the archway leading to the kitchen.

Mycroft frowned at his tea cup while he replayed the brief conversation in his mind several times, examining its nuances, analyzing it for hidden meanings. The results were highly unsatisfying. It made him uneasy.

He hastened to his room to examine the contents of his dresser. He'd instructed his PA to supply only "suitable attire for Provence" and—given her insight—should not have been surprised to find she had thought to include a sufficient selection of casual attire. Much more casual than his usual definition of "casual," but suitable for a "hike."

He changed into a pair of dark jeans, brown suede trainers, and a light green checked cotton button-up shirt over his vest. He examined himself in his full-length mirror, rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and tucked a pair of sunglasses into the vee of his shirt. It took him thirty-five minutes to dress, but he thought the final ensemble made him look quite…fit, actually. He was ready for a pleasant stroll, a civilized conversation, and a recapturing of his advantage in these maneuvers.

xxx

John gripped the wheel of the BMW sedan and tried to keep his attention on the narrow, tree-lined road in front of him instead of the face hovering in his peripheral vision. "Sherlock, I told you to stop staring at me. Look at the scenery."

"I am."

"I mean the countryside."

"It's boring. I'd rather look at you."

"You're distracting me."

"I'd like to be." Sherlock brushed the back of his hand over the top of John's thigh. "_Tu me rends fou._"

"Stop that, too." John knocked his hand away.

"_Si grognon ce matin_," Sherlock said in a mournful tone.

"And what did that mean?" John asked curtly.

"It means you should improve your French, _mon cher râleur_," Sherlock grinned wickedly.

"Stop calling me French things."

"_Si tu insiste…ma petite théière._"

John spared a glance away from the road to assess Sherlock's self-delighted expression suspiciously. "You aren't saying nice things, are you? No, of course you aren't. What was that one, then? The 'little' one?"

"What do you think?"

John frowned thoughtfully. "Some kind of animal?"

Sherlock snickered. "Wrong!"

"No. I'm not playing this game. You know I don't drive often and I'm in the _wrong_ side of the car, on the _wrong_ side of the road. I have to concentrate."

"We've only met three other cars so far."

"That's not the point. And are you ever going to tell me where we're going? I hope you're not leading me into the remote countryside to murder me and leave me in a ditch. That's what my mother always told Harry strange men were up to."

"You think I'm strange?" Sherlock asked, his pout evident in his voice.

"God, of course I do." John looked over to confirm Sherlock's artfully jutting lower lip and twitched a grin in spite of himself. "I just don't think that's a bad thing."

"Oh," he accepted, perking up again. "If I murdered you, John, I would never leave you in a ditch. There would be far more clever and interesting ways to dispose of you."

John glanced over at him and saw the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's very reassuring. I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't used any of them on you after your little speech yesterday."

"I thought they'd be _pleased_," Sherlock insisted petulantly after a dramatic sigh.

"How could you _possibly_ think that? No, Sherlock, they weren't pleased. I still think we should have just gone home today."

"Why? You _said_ you wanted a holiday, _mon…lionceau_."

"Because, Sherlock, it's…" John sighed and then scrunched his forehead. "Lion?" he hazarded.

"Good, John, very good!"

"Oh, that's…not so bad." John arched a little in his seat, stretching his shoulders back, and then settled back in. "I'll need one for you."

"You've favored 'Oh, God' in the recent past."

"And it suits you perfectly. You do realize I'm not _actually_ calling _you_ God when I say that?"

"If you say so…_mon marteau-piqueur_."

"'Idiot' always has a nice ring to it. I like calling you that, I may as well stick with it."

"If you're going to be rude, I'll have to cancel our date."

"Date?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"We've never actually been on a date, have we?" John mused.

Sherlock's hand returned to his knee and slid inward so that his fingers brushed up John's inner thigh. "That's why we're going on one." His hand moved a couple inches higher, his little finger grazing John's crotch.

John felt a flush of warmth in his groin and firmly returned Sherlock's hand to his own thigh, because he was _not_ getting a hard-on right now. What if another car passed and he had to…steer…or something? "Okay. Look. If you will sit quietly, look out your window, behave, and let me focus on driving, I do solemnly swear I will let you distract me _properly_ at the next available opportunity."

"You'll do that anyway. You can't resist me for long."

"Oh, can't I? Have you already forgotten who won our Valentine's Day bet?"

"You cheated!" Sherlock insisted with vehemence, straightening in his seat.

"I _won_," John corrected smugly. "Are you feeling confident about a rematch?" He didn't need to look to know that Sherlock was scowling at him.

Finally Sherlock turned his head with a flounce of curls to stare out the passenger window. "Oh, look, what a lovely tree we've just passed."

"That's better." John enjoyed peaceful driving for the next forty seconds before he made the mistake of saying, "And tell me well in advance when I need to make a turn."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and his fingertips brushed the hair at the nape of John's neck softly and his thumb traced the back of his ear. "_Oui, mon tireur_."

xxx

Hiking was a miserable activity clearly invented by masochists, Mycroft determined as he trailed after Greg across the manicured lawn, along the edge of a cedar forest, and through a flowering apple orchard. Greg was setting a punishing pace, and of course Mycroft refused to raise any objection, even though he was damp with perspiration and his feet were starting to hurt and his illusion of fitness was firmly dispelled. Also, he thought he might have a blister on his left heel.

Greg was the picture of vibrant health, striding along in his cargo shorts and a pair of rugged-looking shoes. Uncomfortable as he was, Mycroft's gaze still lingered inappropriately on the well-defined calves of the man in front of him. Mycroft hoped he wasn't breathing too loudly.

They hiked—with occasional stumbling, in Mycroft's case—out of the orchard and farther away from the villa, along a path littered with rocks and through an overgrown grassy expanse of field until they came to a dilapidated stone barn perched on the crest of a hill.

"There's our view!" Greg exclaimed triumphantly as he put his hands on his hips and regarded the pleasant disarray of tiered clay-tiled rooftops of the bright little village below, nestled in between rolling green and gold fields.

"Lovely," Mycroft said breathlessly as he leaned against the shady side of the stone barn. He scowled, counterproductive to his effort to calm his heart rate, and furiously resented the view and the fresh air and the sweat he could feel starting to dampen the back of his shirt.

Greg turned to look at him over his shoulder, and a corner of his mouth quirked up at the somewhat disheveled sight he knew he must be presenting. "You don't want to have a look?" He walked toward Mycroft. "Then what did you come for?" When Greg stepped into his personal space, Mycroft's pulse was pounding so loud that surely they must be able to hear it in the village below. He rested a lazy hand on the stone wall beside Mycroft's shoulder. "You know what, Mycroft? I've thought of another question after all."

Mycroft's world, which usually consisted of the _entire world_, shrank momentarily to the space in between his mouth and Greg's. How had he ever thought he was in control of himself? Or anything around him? His legs felt a bit wobbly. "Yes?"

"That was it." His voice was soft now, his dark eyes searching. "What _did_ you come all this way for?"

He could deflect the question with a witticism. His response could easily evade or misdirect. He could flatter. He could lie. He took a long breath and opened his mouth, with no idea of which option he was about to choose. "Inspector…Greg." He sighed. "Greg. I owe you an apology. I believe I gave you a certain impression during our time together on New Year's Eve. I am also keenly aware of the distance that has developed between us over the course of the past several months." Greg was not very distant from him at all right now. If he leant forward…tilted his head…. "Whatever your perception and opinion may have been of that evening, I acknowledge that my own response was…inappropriate. I made a mistake. I want to rectify it."

"So you leased a villa in France? You could have just phoned me."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Yes. One might think I'd have learnt that particular lesson by now."

Greg tilted his head and chewed briefly on a corner of his lower lip. "So what impression is it you think you gave me?"

"That I was interested in a less formal relationship with you than we had previously enjoyed in our dealings pertaining to Sherlock's affairs."

Greg snorted a laugh. "Less formal relationship? What does that mean, exactly? Because it seemed like you suddenly decided you wanted to be best mates, drink a pint or six, stay up all night and listen to music, have a chat about the scores?"

Mycroft considered, and finally forced himself to meet and hold Greg's gaze steadily, with both the memory and the prospect of thousands of nights of solitude behind his eyes. "Yes."

The mockery, gentle as it may have been, faded from Greg's face. "Oh. Mycroft, I…really?" He dropped his arm from the wall and took a small step back, and Mycroft's stomach fell. Greg shook his head bemusedly and moved his hand to rest lightly on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft's heart leapt. "I thought…well, I _thought_ you wanted…something else."

"Yes," Mycroft's voice sounded ragged to his own ear on that simple, single syllable.

Greg's eyes widened. "Okay. Wait. I need to be absolutely clear on this," he said slowly. "You wanted to be friends."

Mycroft nodded once.

"And also you wanted to be…lovers?"

It was becoming more and more difficult to speak. "Yes."

"I see." Greg's posture shifted as he processed this information. "And now?"

"And now."

"I see." A slow, lazy smile spread across Greg's face. "All right. Come on."

"Where?" Mycroft breathed. _Anywhere._

"Have a proper look at this view. Then we can take our time a bit more back to the villa." Greg grinned a little wickedly. "And have a nice, long talk about that Arsenal match on the way."

Mycroft looked at Greg uncertainly. "Friends, then?"

"Yeah, Mycroft. Friends." Greg clapped him on the shoulder.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't really want to 'have a chat about the scores'," Mycroft admitted.

Greg nodded understandingly, eyes twinkling. "That's fine, mate. You can just listen."

Mycroft smiled down at the village below, wondering if anyone had ever called him "mate" and actually meant it in a friendly way. Friends. Friendship was good. Friendship was a good place to start, the foundation of a strong relationship, yes? He could work with that. Lovers, no, of course not, that was too much, too soon. But he was a patient man…or he could be. It was lovely view, at that. He could smell the apple blossoms on the breeze and he could hear warblers calling to one another from the surrounding scrub. It was turning into a beautiful day.

xxx

"Ville-en-Violet?" John squinted at the purple-lettered wooden sign welcoming them to what was apparently their destination as they walked from their parked car into town. There was a rather startling amount of purple on display in every street. Doors and shutters of the low stone houses were painted in various shades of purple. Awnings over the windows of shops were purple, the umbrellas over the outdoor café tables were purple. John looked up at Sherlock, who was looking around the little village almost proudly. "Okay, why so much…purple? Something to do with lavender?"

Sherlock bounced on his heels as they walked. "No, murder!" He took John's hand in his.

John almost stumbled on the cobblestones, because Sherlock had never once shown any interest in holding his hand when they were out together. "Murder?" he asked distractedly.

They ambled under a stone archway onto a quiet, shady street where purple-flowered vines clung to the walls. "There was a string of murders committed here in the mid-nineteenth century over the course of several years. Eight apparently unrelated victims, different ages, genders, occupations, even nationalities, found with multiple stab wounds and their clothing removed and burnt next to them. No one could find any common link until a local amateur chemist, Antoine d'Achille, collected the clothing that the police were about to cast aside as irrelevant."

"What did he find?" John smiled up at Sherlock's animated expression.

"Nothing of consequence at the time, but he recorded his results, and performed a similar analysis several months later when the next victim was killed. There was one obvious commonality." He beamed at John. "Not pink this time, but purple!"

John's brow furrowed. "All the victims were wearing purple? You said their clothes were burnt."

"At least two of them were wearing the exact same shade of purple. Monsieur d'Achille conducted chemical analyses of the charred remnants of the clothing and was able to determine the chemical structure of the fabric incorporated a new synthetic dye, a very specific purple, only recently invented."

"How did that lead them to the murderer, then?"

Sherlock shrugged and rubbed his thumb over the back of John's hand. "Well, that part was a bit of luck. The police noticed a local man, already known for some rather odd behavior, with a particularly unpleasant reaction to the color. He tried to attack a swatch of it one afternoon when a clothing merchant was accepting a delivery of new merchandise. Under questioning later, he claimed it was screaming at him. "

"Synesthesia?" John guessed.

"Gone horribly wrong, apparently, in this man's case. In any event, the town began to pay tribute to the victims with a display of purple in their homes and shops each year. Gradually it became the, as you see, rather romanticized theme of the village. They officially changed the name to _Ville-en-Violet_ in 1927." They began ascending a small hill where the street opened into sunlight. "Murder, chemistry, and _sentiment_! I thought you'd like it?"

"Sherlock." John stopped walking and tugged on Sherlock's hand, intending to pull him in for a hard kiss.

Sherlock was peering over John's head, however, with an expression of dismay. "It's not here!"

John turned. "What? What's not here?"

Sherlock pointed at a flower shop across the street. "There used to be a restaurant here. We were going to have lunch."

"Maybe you got the street wrong?"

Sherlock shot him a scathing glance before his expression wilted again into one of utter betrayal. "It was an important part of the date! You _like_ food. We were going to share the _Charlotte à la Framboise_!"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and then brought it to his lips to drop a kiss on it. "When were you last here, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I passed through briefly seven, almost eight years ago."

"Hm."

"Why?"

"Because you've brought me on a date based on my interest in crime, sentiment, and food. I was hoping you'd know of a more private spot somewhere nearby where I can snog you to bits. Right now. It's important."

Sherlock shifted his attention from the offending flower shop to John's face, and regarded him closely for several moments. "This way."

John almost had to break into a jog to keep pace with Sherlock's long strides as he led John by the hand through another sequence of narrow stony streets with picturesque archways and flowering balconies until they came to a large church. John thought he heard singing inside. They made their way into a small courtyard at the back of the structure, to an old wooden door at the base of a bell tower. Sherlock tried the door handle, and it clicked open. "Excellent!" he grinned with a triumphant look.

The inside was bright but dusty, lit by a pair of narrow windows set high in the tower. A simple wooden floor was free of furniture and a staircase curved up to the top of the tower. The singing was much louder here, starting and stopping on parts of the same piece. "It sounds like…choir practice?" John murmured.

"Yes, I believe you're right," Sherlock replied in a low voice, maneuvering John into a space behind the staircase. "They're just in the next room. You're going to have to be quiet." He pressed John to the wall and dropped to his knees.

"Oh, God," John whispered as Sherlock deftly unfastened his belt buckle.

"See?"

Sherlock tugged his jeans and pants down together and closed his lips around the head of John's cock, teasing the foreskin with his tongue. "Oh…God," he sighed again, trying desperately to keep his voice down. He felt Sherlock's lips curve into a smile. "Oh, you're a bad man," John breathed, curling his fingers into a handful of Sherlock's hair as his head began to move slowly back and forth, the inside of his mouth slippery and hot.

The choir's voices swelled.

xxx

Mycroft emerged from his post-perambulatory shower refreshed, relaxed, and cheerful. He dressed in his yellow button-up from the morning and a daringly-fitted pair of dark jeans. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and combed his hair into place.

Greg was waiting for him in a sitting area at the edge of the back gardens where there were a pair of loveseats and a stone-topped table placed under a wrought iron ivy-covered arbor. A tray with a selection of tartines—Mycroft identified chive with smoked salmon, avocado, goat cheese, honey—had appeared on the table along with a chilled bottle of Petit Chablis. Greg, still in his hiking attire, but minus his heavy shoes, had turned sideways on one of the loveseats to stretch his legs out along the cream-colored cushions. He was looking into the garden and munching on a brie and berry-covered tartine.

Mycroft smiled, he feared a little shyly, as he sat down on the other loveseat, but Greg didn't look up at him. "This is…not terrible," Greg mused serenely. "You chose a nice place here, Mycroft."

"Thank you." Mycroft tried not to preen at the simple praise. He reached for the bottle of wine, examined it, and then poured glasses for himself and Greg.

Greg turned to face him as he accepted his glass and leaned forward in his seat a little. "Did you really know this would remind me of my grandfather's house?"

Mycroft looked down uncomfortably. "I was not unaware of the possibility."

"So," Greg mused, "you really did have a whole seduction scheme planned, then?"

Mycroft looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Mycroft," Greg said gently, "answer me."

"I wouldn't call it a 'seduction scheme.'"

"What would you call it then?"

Mycroft took a sip of his wine. It was light with a noticeable citrusy note—lemon—and a touch of saltiness.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft swallowed and finally met Greg's eyes. "Yes. I had a seduction scheme planned."

"All right then."

"I beg your pardon?"

Greg leaned back in the love seat and stretched an arm out casually along the back. "Go on. Let's see what you've got," he challenged, eyes dancing with mischief. "Impress a lad."

xxx

* * *

_Tu me rends fou = You drive me crazy_  
_Si grognon ce matin = So grumpy this morning_  
_mon cher râleur = my dear grouch/whinger_  
_Si tu insiste…ma petite théière = If you insist...my little teapot_  
_mon…lionceau = my...lion cub_  
_mon marteau-piqueur = my jackhammer_  
_Oui, mon tireur = Yes, my marksman_

* * *

xxx


	3. Chapter 3

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Greg's first date with Mycroft was not going well.

They did not linger overly long at dinner in Marseilles nor speak much on the ride back. In the car, Mycroft slid to the far corner of their shared back seat and for most of the journey fiddled with his mobile more attentively than Greg suspected was necessary. Once in a while Greg caught Mycroft looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but each time he returned his attention to his phone immediately, his face looking ghostly and cold in its bluish light. Neglected by his companion, Greg made a few attempts to engage their taciturn young driver, Nicolas, in conversation instead. After receiving several monosyllabic responses and vaguely disapproving glances in the rear-view mirror, Greg gave up and sat in forlorn silence, wishing he had brought his phone along to play with, too. He fidgeted with the corners of the flat black gift box he held on top of one thigh instead.

Greg replayed their dinner in his mind, searching for the moment or moments where he might have given offense. He wasn't always the most sensitive of men, he supposed—his ex-wife would attest to that—but even in hindsight he thought he'd been on his best behavior. Maybe his best behavior wasn't good enough after all. His challenge to Mycroft had been to impress him, but Greg had certainly hoped to impress a bit in return. Flirting, he was usually good at that, but his attempts this evening had not gained him any of Mycroft's smiles in return.

When they arrived back at the villa and entered the foyer, Greg could hear the faint sounds of gunfire and sirens issuing from the media room down the hall. His first thought was that it reminded him of home—London and crime. A good old-fashioned firefight sounded a lot simpler to manage than a date right now. At Greg's wistful little gust of laughter, Mycroft shot him a wary glance. Greg tried to smile at him, still hoping to reconnect, puzzled as he was by Mycroft's peculiar coolness. Mycroft looked away again immediately.

Greg sighed his frustration. "Mycroft, damn it, what's wr—"

"After you," Mycroft interrupted softly but with determination, gesturing with an open palm toward the staircase to the upper floor.

"Are you walking me to my door?" Greg said lightly, trying for an air of levity he was not feeling. He was in fact feeling exceedingly uncertain of himself in the face of Mycroft's gradual withdrawal—disappointment?—as their evening had progressed. "Such a gentleman."

"It's hardly an inconvenience," Mycroft said with a stiff smile, "given the proximity of our rooms." Apparently he _was_ walking Greg to his door…which meant the date was officially over. Greg turned away to hide what he knew would be a crestfallen expression. They ascended without further conversation and paused outside the door to Greg's room, which stood slightly ajar.

Greg ducked down to catch Mycroft's lowered gaze. "Well. Thank you, Mycroft. It was…a nice dinner."

Mycroft ran a long finger down the grooved, ivory-painted wood of the door frame and studied his shoes intently. "You didn't like the restaurant."

Greg blinked. "No, I…it was…" He squinted up at the ceiling, searching his mind for the right word. "Elegant." And a little too quiet. All right, stiflingly quiet. The maître d' had welcomed them warmly enough, but the waiter had smirked at Greg's too-casual trousers. Yeah, he should have changed when he saw what Mycroft was wearing, but Mycroft _always_ dressed in a nice suit. His selected dish—whatever it was exactly, something with beef, he wasn't certain with the menu all in French—had an unexpectedly pungent flavor. He'd supposed his taste was just not refined enough to appreciate it properly, because the food would obviously be very good at such a fine restaurant. "The food was good."

"Greg, you needn't try to be polite. I read people for a living." Mycroft tilted his head reproachfully. "You didn't finish your meal. And you didn't want to stay for dessert. Nor did you like your gift," he added, looking downcast.

Greg looked at the black box in his hand. "It's a lovely tie. Very nice…flowers."

"Medallions," Mycroft corrected with a pained expression. He reached toward the box and then dropped his hand to his side without touching it. "It's silk, handmade in Italy."

"Ah."

"It will complement your eyes."

"Mycroft, I _said_ it's lovely," He received the reproachful look again, and shifted uncomfortably. "All right then. Fine. I didn't like the restaurant. And you gave me a _tie_. A very, very nice tie, but it's a little, um, I don't know…impersonal? But I wasn't there for the food. And I wasn't there for a gift."

"I want you to have the best." Mycroft lifted his chin challengingly, but Greg had already come to recognize the pose as defensive.

Greg's brow furrowed. "The best what?"

"Everything."

"So you're upset with me because I didn't really like the best things?" Greg asked, bewildered, scratching at the end-of-day stubble on his chin as he examined the rigid set of Mycroft's jaw.

"Upset with _you_?" Mycroft frowned crossly and shook his head. "With myself."

"For what?"

"For not giving you _anything_ that was…right. I should _know_ what you like." He traced a finger down the doorframe delicately again, smirked, and said with heavy irony, "After all, I read people for a living."

"You don't have to _give_ me anything, you idiot," Greg protested wonderingly, gesturing with the box in his hand. He looked down at it as reassurance sparked in his chest, then back at Mycroft, and thought that he would really like both his hands free. "Hang on." He opened the door and stepped into his room to toss the box onto the end of his bed.

"Do you like your room?" Mycroft asked hopefully from behind him, waiting diffidently outside the doorway.

Greg's now-dancing mind shuffled through theories on Mycroft's apparent reluctance to enter the bedroom—yes, he had seen Mycroft reflected in a mirror. And Mycroft's cassoulet at dinner had definitely included garlic in its ingredients—Greg had sampled a bite. He smiled and held out his hand. _Such a gentleman._ "For fuck's sake, Mycroft, come in."

Mycroft ducked his head, took his hand, and stepped across the threshold. The warmth in Greg's chest was becoming effervescent. Mycroft looked around the room appraisingly. "I thought it would suit you well?"

"Really?" Greg scanned the room, trying to see it through Mycroft's eyes. It was large and the natural stone walls were brightened in the daytime by two floor-to-ceiling windows, but the room was spare in decoration apart from a warmly colorful rug and a painting of a line of white-robed men charging on horseback into golden clouds of battle dust. An incongruous and enormous rack of antlers was mounted over the fireplace. "Because?"

"It seemed…" Mycroft drew himself up, uttering the next word uncertainly. "Masculine." Greg looked at the antlers again, took a breath, and the bubbles in his chest burst as he dissolved into decidedly un-masculine giggles. Mycroft pressed his lips together tightly and looked away, flushing pink.

"I'm…flattered," Greg managed finally, wiping tears away from the corners of his eyes. Hands, yes, he'd wanted to do something with them. Mycroft looked unhappy and that wouldn't do at all. Greg put his hands on Mycroft's shoulders and squeezed. "You."

Mycroft's posture stiffened at the contact. His eyes widened. "What about me?"

"If you still want to know something I like…" Greg leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Mycroft's and smiled playfully. "I like you."

Mycroft blinked. His mouth opened and closed several times as he sought a response. "I wanted to _impress_ you." The confession escaped on a rushed, fluttering breath.

Greg pressed his lips softly to Mycroft's. "You're doing fine," he whispered, and slid his hands up to the sides of Mycroft's neck. Mycroft swayed toward him, and Greg gave him one more kiss, one he let linger before he pulled away. He felt giddy. He felt powerful. He felt like jumping up and down on his bed and throwing pillows and whooping. He swallowed the sensation down into his chest, where it curled up and purred. "So, what's next in your master plan of seduction?"

Mycroft still seemed to be having some trouble responding, so Greg stroked the edge of his jaw soothingly with his thumb. He felt Mycroft swallow twice before he spoke. "I do…have something…in mind for tomorrow."

"Will I like it?"

Mycroft's laugh was surprised and wholly unguarded. "I've no idea."

xxx

John wandered the grounds near the villa after his morning cup of tea and a breakfast pastry. The air was still cool, especially under the tall plane trees, and the sky was a little overcast. He spotted Greg at the far end of one of the formal gardens—geometric patches of lawn decorated with both flowering and sculpted trees, classical statuary, and gurgling stone fountains—and headed toward him. He was standing in front of one of the statues, an artfully posed female nude whose platform elevated her above him by half a meter, gazing up at her reflectively with an odd little smile on his face. He glanced at John as he approached. "Morning."

"Care to introduce me to your friend?"

Greg grinned. "I think her name is Aphrodite."

"Ah, the ideal of feminine beauty." John stood beside him and looked up at bare stone breasts. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Having a lie-in. Lazy bugger." John chuckled, then looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye speculatively, wondering what their mutual status was after the previous day's Sherlock-induced debacle. He may as well test the waters. "And…where's Mycroft?"

"Working this morning," Greg answered benignly, with no trace of discomfort at the question. "But we have plans this afternoon."

"Oh? What sort of plans?"

"Apparently it's a surprise."

John pulled an expression that was only half-jokingly alarmed, as his mind flashed through the sort of potential scenarios a "surprise" from Mycroft Holmes might entail. "So…you two…that's all...sorted, then?"

"Yeah." Greg huffed a laugh and looked back up at the statue bemusedly. "Better than."

"Sorry if it was sketchy for a bit. Sherlock, um, actually said he thought you'd both be 'pleased' by his…deductions," John told him. As ever, he felt it fell on him to smooth things over after a Sherlocking had occurred. It wasn't his favorite part of his life with Sherlock, but it was far too often a necessary one. "Mad as that sounds."

"I am pleased, as a matter of fact. Surprised, but…pleased." He placed a hand on the curve of Aphrodite's bared hip, rubbed his thumb over her the sculpted swell, and said quietly, "I never expected this…you know?"

John laughed softly and circled behind the statue, pausing to run the back of two fingers up the inner arc of her thigh. "Yeah, well. Neither did I. But look at the pair of us." He cupped his hand under the curve of one cold, sculpted buttock and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sherlock's is nicer."

"I…didn't need to hear that," Greg sighed.

John peered around Aphrodite's backside at him. "Fancy a few rounds of Street Fighter? I saw an Xbox."

Greg stuffed both his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked on his heels. "Yeah, cheers, all right!"

xxx

Three hours later, Sherlock found Lestrade and John in the media room perched on the edge of their chairs, vigorously thumbing buttons on their video game controllers and yelling profanities while two unrealistically muscular computer-generated characters kicked and pummeled each other on the enormous projection screen television.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John?"

"Take _that_, dick weasel."

"Fuck you sideways!"

"Dick weasel?" Sherlock repeated quizzically, with perfect enunciation.

"Oh, you're going down, you pile of—"

"Fuck…balls…motherffff…son of a _bitch_!"

Greg flung himself sideways in his chair as if to encourage his poorly-rendered avatar to move in the same direction. "Now you're in trou—hey, how'd you do _that_?"

Sherlock frowned. "This room smells like socks."

John leaned over to show Lestrade a button on his controller. "I just keep hitting this one really fast until he does the flip, then this one."

"John," Sherlock said.

"Nice. Lemme try that…" Lestrade jabbed at his buttons furiously and one of the characters produced some sort of injurious flaming cloud.

"There you go! Good one! Oh! You _enormous _cock."

Lestrade cackled with ridiculous glee.

"John," Sherlock said again, raising his voice.

"Look what happens if I press these—shit!"

"Ha! Not so cocky now, are we?"

Sherlock picked up the somewhat crumpled game manual from the floor beside John's chair, flipped through it, sighed as loudly as he could, and flung the manual back onto the floor between John and Lestrade's chairs. Neither man looked at him. His lips tightened.

"Ha! Did you feel that? Oh, I know you felt that!"

Sherlock walked in front of the screen and glared at John.

"Oi!"

"Out of the way, tosser!"

Sherlock spread his arms. Behind him one of the fighters emitted an agonized death groan.

"Damn it!" Lestrade threw his controller on the floor. "I had him that time!"

"In your dreams!" John returned merrily.

Lestrade sighed, leaned back in his chair, then jumped up again after glancing at his watch. "God, is that the time? I have to run!"

"Yeah, you'd _better_ run." John grinned. "Hey, have fun, mate."

"You too!" Lestrade grinned back, exchanging some sort of secret eye language look with John that Sherlock did not care for at all.

"Yes, lovely, everyone have a lovely day!" Sherlock mimicked as Lestrade left the room. He turned to John and finally allowed the details of his appearance to register, and his expression grew appalled. "John…_what_ are you wearing?"

John puffed his chest out to emphasize the painting of a mountain depicted on the front of his aggressively yellow t-shirt. "Do you like it? I got it in Aix. It's by Cézanne."

"It's hideous. Take it off."

"No. It's a souvenir."

"It's ridiculous. I can't be seen with you like this."

"I got you one, too."

"Oh, how wonderful."

"Not like this one. Yours is black. And it has a skull on it," John said enticingly. "Cézanne also painted skulls."

"Hm." Sherlock's brow furrowed contemplatively. He nodded toward the door. "Lestrade seems disgustingly cheerful."

John smirked. "Didn't you deduce it from his shoes, or whatever? He's got a sort of…date. With your brother."

"Eugh." Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Have you spoken to him?"

"Once or twice. We did grow up together. Sort of."

"You know what I meant."

Sherlock sighed and flung himself into Lestrade's abandoned chair. The leather was still warm. "Not since I, as you so mawkishly phrased it, 'nearly ruined his hope for happiness.' Which obviously I did _not_ do, as his so-called 'happiness' is bustling off for some sort of rendezvous with him right now." Sherlock shuddered.

"Yeah, but what if you had?" John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock decided to classify the question as rhetorical, but he frowned. What if he had? What if _he_ did not have John? What if John had not wanted him? What if he _almost_ had John, but lost him? He looked at John, in his ridiculous, garish shirt, kicking one short leg idly against the bottom of his chair. He had eaten a raspberry pastry for breakfast. He'd been outdoors this morning already. His hair was mussed out of place. His eyes were bright from his game play. His glorious dark blue eyes. His John. His hope for happiness. "_Mon bien-aimé_," he murmured.

John eyed him suspiciously. "That one sounded…nice. Does that mean…best friend?"

Sherlock considered, tilting his head. "Yes."

A sincere smile lit John's face. "Well...that's...you're mine too. You know that. And don't think I don't realize you're just diverting me from the subject." He bounced in his seat a little, obviously still full of sympathetic adrenaline, and waved his game controller at Sherlock. "Hey, do you want to play?"

"Certainly not."

"Yeah, I understand." John nodded with a sad-eyed, patronizing look at Sherlock. "Because you know I'd kick your arse across the entire continent and back."

"And you call _me_ childish. This," he waved a hand behind him at the television, "is childish. And boring."

"Mmm." John licked his lips. "Winner's on top."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

John regarded him steadily.

"John, the game…" Sherlock snatched up Lestrade's discarded controller, eyes flashing. "…is on."

"Let's see what you've got!" John wriggled in his chair. "Pretty boy."

Sherlock found that getting the hang of the game play and the evidently requisite swearing were both fairly simple, as was ensuring he eventually subdued his response time just enough so that when his adversary started to win he would believe it was completely legitimately.

xxx

Mycroft was, Greg was fairly certain, younger than he—he would have to remember to ask by how much—but his tightly-controlled demeanor so often made Greg forget that detail, in fact often made Greg feel like the younger man by far. The man Greg found waiting for him that afternoon, leaning against the large stone arch leading to the salon with a warm, welcoming smile, looked much younger than the usual Mycroft Holmes. He was dressed casually in dark, slim jeans that made his legs alone look about six feet long and a subtly-textured dusky blue button-up shirt, open at the neck to reveal the pale hollow of his throat. His hair was not combed back as severely as usual. Instead it looked messier, with one auburn forelock curling just a little to touch his forehead. Greg licked his lips, staring at that little curl.

It wasn't just that he looked younger, Greg realized, now that he'd seen Mycroft in casual wear a few times. He looked far more vulnerable when he wasn't wearing one of his customary three-piece suits. Greg had realized long ago that Mycroft's attire was only one of the tools he used to reinforce an image of power, but he'd only just realized how _effective_ it actually was. Today it was not Mycroft-the-British-government who was standing in front of him. This was Mycroft, just a man. And that man was…sexy. _Really_ sexy.

"Greg…good afternoon." The velvet of his voice was almost tangible. He started toward Greg, and then stopped himself and clasped his hands a little awkwardly in front of him.

Greg felt unexpectedly awkward as well, the burst of confidence that had fueled his kiss last night fading in the light of day. He wondered if Mycroft could read on his face the torrent of inspired libidinous thoughts he'd worked off in the shower before he went to bed. Would he like them? Would he be appalled? "Mycroft. You look…you look…" _Edible_. "Is, er, this all right?" he asked, indicating his own grey twill trousers and darker grey Henley top, not wanting to find himself wrong-footed or wrong-trousered again with Mycroft. "For wherever we're going?"

Mycroft smiled enigmatically. "We're staying in." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "This way."

Greg followed him down the hallway, through the kitchen, and down a back stairway into a small room on a lower level of the villa that Greg hadn't discovered in his initial explorations. It was a cozy, stone-walled room set in an area of the house where the garden sloped down, opening onto a covered patio. An elegant chandelier-style fixture hung from a coffered wood ceiling over a high stone table set in the center of the room. A worktop with a sink, an array of glassware, and a pebbled stone floor completed what was apparently a wine tasting room. There was already an array of wines bottles, an assortment of stemmed glassware, a basket of sliced bread, and a pitcher of water arranged along the stone table.

Greg had the strong impression that Mycroft was resisting the urge to exclaim, "Ta da!" as his surprise was revealed. He looked well pleased with himself, in any case, and Greg hid a grin at this uncharacteristic and utterly delightful display of enthusiasm behind his hand.

"I will be your sommelier for the afternoon," Mycroft said with a small bow.

"Wine tasting?" Greg grinned and seated himself on a stool at the tall table. "This looks a little like one of Sherlock's chemistry projects, actually."

Mycroft let Greg's mention of his brother pass without comment. "I've…noted that you enjoy wine upon occasion."

"I do, yeah, from time to time. Although I'm usually more one for a pint."

"And I generally prefer whisky," Mycroft nodded, satisfied. "But there is an aspect of this experience that I especially wished to share."

"What's that?"

Mycroft selected a bottle of wine, already uncorked, and poured two small glasses. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and Greg looked at the freckles on his forearms and wondered where else he was freckled. "It isn't just about the taste of the wine. It's about the scent. The texture. The memories it evokes." He put one glass on the table and slid it toward Greg, holding his gaze. "It's sensual."

Greg felt his heart rate jump.

"I've selected an assortment of local and regional wines for us to sample." Mycroft held his glass up by the stem and inspected the color of the wine against the light from the doors to the patio.

Greg mirrored Mycroft's action and raised his glass for scrutiny. The wine was a nice pale gold color, he supposed. "Are these 'the best' wines?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes when he smiled this time. "No. But they're very good." He swirled the wine in his glass and inhaled. "Mmm," he hummed in appreciation. "Floral perfume…ethereal…but with a tang of citrus. Can you smell it?"

Greg sniffed at his glass hesitantly. It did smell a little like…oranges? "I've never been very good at this," he confessed with another, deeper sniff. "I can never smell what I'm supposed to smell."

"I am, perhaps, better equipped for such an endeavor," Mycroft joked wryly. _Joked_? Yes, he'd made a joke! About his _nose_. Greg huffed a startled laugh as Mycroft continued. "Please, don't concern yourself with how you think you _should_ experience the wine. This is…" Mycroft fixed him with a suddenly earnest look. "I want this to be…fun." He pronounced the final word cautiously, as if it were the first time he'd ever said it aloud and wasn't quite sure how it was supposed to sound.

Greg wanted to kiss him, but he resisted the urge to crawl over the table to do so. "Um, and you should know I never taste what I'm supposed to taste, either, but I'll try."

"Close your eyes," Mycroft suggested, bending forward and resting his elbows on the table to watch Greg intently.

Greg felt very aware of his mouth, his face, his body under that stare. "All right." Greg closed his eyes and took a sip of his wine. His eyes opened again in surprise at the taste. "Oh. It's…kind of…buzzy?" He waved his hand, searching the air for adjectives.

Mycroft smiled satisfaction at him and took a sip from his glass. "That's the acidity. It invigorates the palate."

Greg took another sip. "It tastes like summer." He wondered if Mycroft's tongue also felt fizzy.

Mycroft's smile widened with obvious approval. "Nectarines and honey."

Greg smiled back, pleased at having pleased Mycroft and feeling just absurdly…pleased with everything. He certainly wasn't drunk on two sips of wine. It must be something else. He took one more sip. "Wait, I'm not supposed to be spitting it out, am I?"

"While that is the usual practice at a formal tasting, here, with me, it is absolutely your decision whether or not you prefer to swallow."

Greg's eyes flew toward Mycroft, widening, but Mycroft had turned to rinse out his glass in the little worktop sink. He turned back with what Greg suspected was a residue of humor in his eyes, and took Greg's glass as well. Greg cleared his throat. "Next one?"

"We'll allow a short interval of time for our palates to clear," Mycroft informed him. "Help yourself to water or bread if you like. We can…converse."

Greg didn't bother hiding his grin. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his chin propped up on one hand. "What would you like to talk about?"

Mycroft settled himself atop a stool opposite Greg and rested his hands in his lap. "I suppose we're past 'tell me about yourself'?" He smiled crookedly.

Greg snorted. "Well, you tell me—is there anything that's _not_ in your reports? No, it's all right," he added as Mycroft's eyes grew concerned. "I understand about that sort of thing, you know." Mycroft looked a little unconvinced, but he nodded his acceptance of Greg's reassurance along with his implicit acknowledgement of the existence of these not-supposed-to-exist reports. Not that Greg had any doubts of their existence in the first place. He expected Mycroft knew things about his life that he himself didn't know or could no longer remember. He wondered whether he should find the situation disturbing but ultimately…he didn't. There was something liberating about being thoroughly known…and still admired. Something that made him want to return the favor. "I don't have a file on you, though. You should tell me something."

"Something like…what?"

"Something personal. Something that wouldn't be in a file, even if there was one."

Mycroft pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "I like to cook."

"You told me that at New Year's," Greg reminded him.

"Did I?" Mycroft blinked.

"Yeah. You provided me with copious detail for almost two hours on desserts you'd made." He couldn't miss Mycroft's embarrassed look, although he wasn't sure whether Mycroft was embarrassed because he didn't remember the conversation or because of the reminder of their tentative and subsequently abandoned first flirtation. He didn't want him to feel embarrassed. "No, it was…cute. All right, tell me why, then."

Mycroft shrugged. "I find it relaxing. Peaceful. Creative."

Greg tilted his head. "And who do you usually cook this peaceful, creative food for?"

Mycroft shook his head as if puzzled by the question. "Myself."

For himself by himself. Greg supposed that was not necessarily a bad thing, although in the context of his own life it brought to mind beans on toast or takeaway eaten in front of the telly.

"I'd like to cook for you," Mycroft offered. He looked at Greg in that slightly shy way that made Greg's heart skip. "Sometime. If you'd like."

"Yeah. I would." He looked at the freckles on Mycroft's arms again. He wondered what the fabric of his shirt felt like. It looked soft.

"I think it's time for the next wine," Mycroft said quietly, moving to pick up a second bottle and two fresh glasses. He poured the wine, a red this time, and slid Greg's glass across the top of the stone table. He gathered his sommelier demeanor around him again and lifted his glass. "This is a 2009 cuvée from the Languedoc region, a blend of the Rhône's Syrah and Grenache grapes."

"Mmm, fascinating," Greg grinned, watching Mycroft. He held the wine up to the light and glanced at it. Kind of reddish-purple. His eyes returned to Mycroft.

"The estate was established in 1664 by monks who brought a new shrub, a berry, from Corsica to the Languedoc."

Greg sniffed the wine. It did smell like berries. Greg took a sip.

"You may be able to taste the black and red berries distinctly. Let the wine linger, let it spread across your tongue," Mycroft advised. "It will improve your sense of taste." He demonstrated, taking a sip of his wine, tilting his head back slightly, elongating the line of his throat and closing his eyes.

_Fucking hell._

Greg finished the rest of his glass in a gulp that no doubt would have horrified Mycroft if he'd seen it. Mycroft's eyes did fly open when Greg set his glass down with a loud _clink_, slid off his stool, and strode around the table. He took Mycroft's glass from his fingers and pulled him into a deep kiss. Mycroft made a startled sound and then melted completely into him, wrapping his arms around Greg's waist. Greg slid his fingers into the hair on the back of Mycroft's head. It _was_ as soft as it looked. Greg sucked his tongue, licked at the corners of his lips. When he pulled away he said huskily, "I can taste spices in your mouth."

"Greg," Mycroft breathed, looking dazed. His cheeks were very flushed now, and his hair was beautifully disheveled.

_I did that. _Greg's body told him to press in further, to press Mycroft against the wall and taste every part of him. With their hips pressed together as they were by the end of the kiss, Greg was in no doubt that Mycroft was just as aroused as he was. Something made him hesitate, though. He ran his hands from Mycroft's shoulders to his chest. His shirt was soft, too. The hollow of his throat was soft. Vulnerable. "I'm sorry," Greg murmured. What was he sorry for? He looked over Mycroft's shoulder at the carefully-arranged bottles of wine lined up on the worktop.

Greg stepped back and Mycroft ran a slightly shaky hand through his hair, failing completely to smooth it back into place. "Not at all." His voice was shaky, too. "I think you may have introduced an element to the tasting process that has been long-overlooked at the more formal events. I shall have to make them aware of the oversight."

Greg tugged at the placket at the front of Mycroft's shirt playfully. "I'll be really put out if you snog anyone else this way." And he meant that sincerely, playful tone or not.

Mycroft hooked his finger into the vee at the top of Greg's Henley top and gave it little tug. He dropped his head. "Greg. I…want you, too. I…just…I…" His voice was tight.

"It's all right." He kissed Mycroft's jaw and ran his hand down the back of his neck. "Let's try the next wine, then?"

Mycroft nodded and plucked up the next bottle enthusiastically. "Ah. 2006 Corbières Rouge, with an old-vine Carignan base. Aged in small barriques. Earthy and expressive. I hope you'll be able to smell the violet!" He smiled broadly as he poured two glasses.

"Mycroft? Um. Are we incorporating that missing element of the tasting process, then? Going forward, I mean?"

Mycroft pulled out the stool beside his for Greg and put his glass in front of it. "I think that would be beneficial, don't you?"

xxx

The afternoon sun shone through the sheer white curtains of John and Sherlock's bedroom window. Sherlock was in complete disarray on his back in their bed with one hand clutched in their sheets, one hand gripping John's arm, one heel hooked over John's shoulder, and John between his legs.

John's hands were small and strong and they were everywhere, as though he manifested extra ones when they were in bed together just so he could use them to remind Sherlock that the back of his neck was so very sensitive and his thighs had long muscles in them and his toes were ticklish and he liked having his belly stroked and fingers on his throat and his nipples lightly pinched and his bicep squeezed and his hand held tightly when it was John.

"John," he gasped as John shifted his position…effectively. "Unnh." Why did he feel the pressure against his prostate behind his teeth as well? "John. There. Right there. Don't stop." He didn't know why. He didn't know anything at all and he didn't care. He wrapped his hand around his own erection and that was good, very, very good, and every time John pushed into him there was friction and he had to stroke and groan he couldn't help it he _had_ to.

It was fine, because John was making noises, too. John made ridiculous noises during sex. And whispered ridiculous things. And you were allowed to laugh, you were _meant_ to laugh sometimes, and it was all fine. Now it was John's hand around his cock, hot, quick, urging, urgent. Sex was like a game and games were like sex and John was inside him and he'd _won_ and he wanted to find a way to be inside John at the same time, impossibly and inextricably interjoined. John was watching his face and his eyes were so—_oh._ "_Oh._" yes "…_ssss_…" yes John yes yes there yes more keep yes John "_…John…_" yes John _yes yes_.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again—and, damn it, he'd wanted _not_ to close them, he wanted to watch John's face be ridiculous and beautiful—his abdomen was coated and sticky and so was a patch of the sheet under him. John was hovering above him on all fours and covering his face in murmurs and kisses. "Any good?" Sherlock asked with a light touch to John's hair.

"_Very_ good," John rumbled, and kissed one of his eyebrows, and the side of his nose, and his mouth.

"You cheated again," he chided, petting John's back, "with that ball of fire."

"I won." John grinned in triumph, rolling off the bed and heading for the bathroom. "Be right back, I'll get a towel."

_Wrong…and wrong_, Sherlock thought smugly as he picked up the horrid yellow t-shirt from beside the bed and mopped his stomach with it.

xxx

* * *

_Mon bien-aimé = My beloved_

* * *

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Thanks, mate, merci." Greg clapped the chef amiably on the back and picked up the dark acacia wood serving tray. In the hallway he passed John, who was swimsuit-clad and carrying a towel and a paperback book, and they exchanged cheerful greetings. Walking carefully so as not to upset his important cargo, Greg made his way to the library where Mycroft had secluded himself for the better part of the morning to tend to the free world.

He kicked gently at the bottom of the door several times in lieu of a knock, calling, "Room service."

After a moment, Mycroft opened the door, looking a little tight around the eyes but otherwise as handsome as Greg always thought him now. He was clothed casually once again in jeans and a striped, pale lavender button-up. As much as the waistcoats sparked Greg's imagination, with their trails of tidy little buttons directing him down Mycroft's body, he more than approved of casual Mycroft as well. It was the way the rolled-up sleeves revealed his freckled forearms, or the exposed hollow of his throat, or the fit of those jeans…or it was just the man himself, in any attire. The forearms were very good, though.

"Is it dinner already?" Mycroft patted absently at the front his shirt, where his silver pocket watch normally would have nestled in the pocket of his waistcoat, then rubbed his temples between the thumb and fingers of one hand while he held the door open for Greg to enter.

"And hello to you, too."

Mycroft looked slightly abashed. "Hello."

Greg looked around the room for a convenient spot to set the tray. The library seemed like a very _Mycroft_ sort of room, warmer and more subtly rich than the rustic look of the rest of the villa, with one panelled wall devoted entirely to books. Mycroft's laptop, now closed, rested atop a polished mahogany desk, and Greg pushed it gently to one side to make space for the serving tray. "Yes, it's that time. I won't keep you. I just wanted to bring you this—" he gestured at the tray "–and make sure you'd be ready for tonight."

"Of course I'll be ready," Mycroft said, his expression softening. "I'm very much looking forward to it. Whatever 'it' is."

Greg tried to sound coolly mysterious. "My turn for a surprise, that's what. Now kiss the cook and have your lunch." He felt almost wickedly domestic, trying on this nurturing role. It was a role he'd always felt came naturally to him, but one his ex-wife had been strangely reluctant to let him play, as if he were insulting her own abilities by doing so.

Mycroft frowned in dismay at the silver-covered dish on the serving tray. "Kiss…Gerard?"

"No, cleverest man in all of England. Me. I made your lunch."

"Did you?" Mycroft lifted the cover from his lunch plate. A little bubble of laughter escaped him. "A sandwich." He noticed his beverage. "And a lager."

"Yeah, I'm a rubbish cook," Greg grinned, feeling absurdly proud of the way the tension in Mycroft's face had already eased. In fact, Greg fancied he looked touched by the gesture. "In the interest of full disclosure, Gerard _was_ the one who pointed out the rosemary bread. And, um, the tray. But I'm great at slicing and stacking things together. So I did all of that part."

"Well. In that case, I feel quite spoiled."

"Then what should you be doing?" asked Greg in a leading tone.

Mycroft stepped forward and obligingly bestowed an appropriately satisfying kiss on the cook.

xxx

John lay in the sun, just on the edge of a doze, his skin prickling in the heat. Beside him his paperback lay neglected on his towel alongside his sunglasses and a beaded glass of what was once ice water. A shadow passed in front of the orange-tinged light filtering through his closed eyelids and then there was a dramatic flopping sound beside him followed by a gusty sigh. John grinned.

"You smell like coconuts."

"I don't want to burn," murmured John.

"Then you shouldn't be exposing yourself half-clothed to ultraviolet radiation. Come back to the house."

"It feels nice." John propped himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light. He looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting beside him, leaning back on his hands with his face tilted up toward the sun. His profile was framed by a clear azure sky. Sunlight kindled glints of deep auburn brown on the arcs of his dark curls. His cheeks and lips were already flushed with warmth. John knew he would never tire of looking at Sherlock, just looking at him. He was fascinating, hard and soft, dark and brilliant all at once. He was…glorious. "I love you so much," John breathed out before he realized he intended to speak at all.

Sherlock turned and gave him a long, curious stare. He eased himself onto his side, spreading a big hand across John's stomach and propping his head up with the other. "You're hot. And oily. And sweaty," Sherlock observed.

"I am all those things," John agreed, "And so much more." He wiped a finger through the layer of suntan lotion on his shoulder and rubbed a little on Sherlock's nose, which immediately wrinkled in affront. "Don't want you to burn, either."

"That's disgusting," he complained.

"You've had worse things on your face."

Sherlock sniffed and slid his hand slowly up to John's chest and back down. "That's because you're frequently disgusting."

"Disgust isn't usually the sentiment you express at the time."

"Only because I'm sparing your feelings."

John snorted laughter at the concept. "No, you aren't."

"John, I need you to come back to the house."

There was no mistaking the intent in Sherlock's voice or eyes. "Sherlock, are you conducting some sort of experiment regarding my sexual stamina?" John asked lazily as his thoughts began to thicken along with his cock in automatic response to Sherlock's arousal-deepened baritone. This would be their…sixth time? Or was it seventh? In four days? "Not that I'm complaining. Just…wondering."

"No." Sherlock tugged at the drawstring around John's waist. "Although it's an excellent idea. Of course, if I _were _conducting such an experiment, I couldn't tell you."

"Because informing me would skew the results."

"Obviously."

"Really, though. What's come over you these past few days?"

"You, if you recall," Sherlock rubbed his hand across John's stomach again, insinuating his fingertips slowly under John's waistband.

"And you're being funny," John captured the hand and held it in place, forcing his eyes fully open so he could take a more focused look at Sherlock. "I've never seen you like this, you know."

"Funny? I'm frequently funny. It's hardly my fault you have an underdeveloped sense of humor."

"Not funny. Well, yes, funny is part of it. You've been…affectionate. And…sexual. _Very_ sexual."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, all right, I've seen you be sexual…and funny and affectionate, but not usually all…together. And not usually for so long."

Sherlock assumed an offended expression. "Problem?"

"No, it's…good." He laced his fingers between Sherlock's. "I like you like this. Holidays must suit you. I was afraid you'd be bored here."

Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

"Well, in fairness, you've not been idle, considering the 'sexual' part of all that. You've not left much time for getting bored."

"I just…want you. A lot. All the time. John, I mean to keep you, whatever it takes." Sherlock leaned over and kissed his oily shoulder. He looked down at their joined hands and frowned. "I should tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm supposed to. I do know that. I mean to…say it…every day, I want to, but…."

_Oh_. John swallowed hard and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "It's fine, Sherlock." They were just words, after all. He would rather not hear them at all than hear them forced out. He had no doubt of Sherlock's feelings.

"But I _do…_ _All_ the time."

"Even when you think I'm an idiot?" John teased him, as he always did when Sherlock looked at him so earnestly that it made his chest start to ache.

"Yes."

"Even when _you're_ an idiot?"

Sherlock smiled a little as he fell in with John's light tone. "Yes."

"So really quite a lot, then."

"John," Sherlock's tone grew darker, more insistent. "Come back to the house."

"Wait, what do you mean, you 'mean to keep me?'" John frowned. "What do you mean, 'whatever it takes?'"

Sherlock slid his hand free from John's so his fingertips could tease the trail of golden hair that disappeared into John's swimming trunks. In spite of the sun's warmth on his body, John's skin broke out in gooseflesh.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock's voice dropped impossibly deeper and he pulled at John's hand. "John, come back to the house _now_."

xxx

A breath of warmth still lingered in the early evening air as Mycroft and Greg strolled along the pavement in Avignon. The tip of Mycroft's umbrella made a familiar _tick_ noise as he touched it to the pavement with each step.

Greg looked very comfortable in a navy cotton blazer, light blue button-up, and a pair of beige Chinos. Subtly inspecting the fit of Greg's prêt-à-porter, Mycroft silently envisioned possible alterations and additions to his wardrobe, imagining how nicely a bespoke suit would showcase Greg's beautifully-proportioned, masculine physique. Almost as strong as his desire to undress Greg was Mycroft's desire to _dress_ him, for Greg's pleasure as well as his own. He resolved to keep those thoughts to himself, though—especially after the tie debacle—fearing Greg might find the desire intrusive or insulting…or _creepy_. That had been the abrupt and relationship-ending reaction of the only other man he had once, very long ago, offered to clothe in style, thinking it would be sensual, thinking it would be _fun_.

As he did not know their destination, taking Greg's sartorial advisement on faith, Mycroft had foregone wearing one of his three-piece suits for the evening. He had opted instead for an ensemble of separates combining a linen-blend blazer, puppytooth trousers, and a sleeveless button-front jumper, all in shades of grey, which resulted in a similar visual effect and comfortably familiar feel. A pale lilac paisley silk tie added a seasonally-appropriate and pleasant splash of color. The umbrella felt like a requisite component, although Greg had noted, genially enough, there was no forecast for rain.

Mycroft smiled judiciously in response. "It is always going to rain. The only question is when." He kept his umbrella.

Having been officially forbidden from investigating any potential date scenarios once Greg had announced his intention to take Mycroft out for the evening, Mycroft was honestly surprised when they arrived at the Opéra Théâtre d'Avignon. The surprise—and what a rare and delightful sensation it was to be surprised—was not as much in the venue as in the performance itself. "Hoffman!" he exclaimed. He looked quickly to Greg, who looked pleased but not _knowingly_ so. Or at least no more so than was usual—he thought Greg frequently looked like he knew something Mycroft didn't, constantly making him wonder when he would learn what it was. He did not look, however, as though he knew of Mycroft's particular attachment to Offenbach's opera. Mycroft was certain he had not mentioned it at any point—it was another pleasure that by long habit he kept tucked away for safe, private enjoyment.

"It's all right, then?" Greg offered that disarmingly open, boyish smile that always made Mycroft's breath catch. How did he do that? Mycroft had not looked that boyish even as a boy, but then charm had never been his weapon of choice, so it would likely have been wasted on him. He wished he knew how to induce a reciprocal response in Greg. He seemed to manage it on occasion, but frustratingly, only inadvertently. No, charm was not his area.

The carousel across the square from the entrance to the opera house was already brightly lit although the sun had not yet set. Mycroft watched the painted horses prance in slow motion as the carousel revolved. "_Les contes d'Hoffmann_, Tales of Hoffman, it's a…special favorite of mine. It was one of the first operas I saw as a boy, and I was transported. Quite transported. I imagined at the time I had learned a great deal about the way the world worked. It's a fantastical production, romantic and dark. Have you seen it before? Are you familiar with the story?"

"No, on both counts." Greg scuffed the toe of one shoe on the pavement. "But I do have it on good authority there are some songs about beer."

Mycroft laughed. "So there are. Oh, I do hope you like it. I'm…touched. That you selected this particular performance for us is…remarkable." He gave Greg a curious, appraising look.

Greg scuffed his shoe again, this time with a thoughtful frown, and then seemed to come to some decision. "Well…" He pulled his mobile from one of the side pockets of his blazer. He brought up a text message and showed it to Mycroft. "I did have a little help."

Mycroft frowned at the text on the small screen, and his eyes widened in surprise—and what a rare and…_peculiar_…sensation it was to be surprised.

LES CONTES D'HOFFMANN. OPÉRA THÉÂTRE D'AVIGNON. HE'LL LIKE IT. –SH

"I'm…I'm astonished he was even aware of my fondness for it," Mycroft said quietly as his assumptions on his Sherlock's attitude toward this budding relationship...and toward his older brother in general...somersaulted in his brain. Not that he _needed _ Sherlock's approval.

"I don't think I was meant to tell you he sent it to me," Greg admitted, "But if you're that pleased, I couldn't take all the credit, could I? Even though I _did_ want to impress you."

"Yet you took his recommendation seriously."

"Why wouldn't I? You think he'd offer me bad advice just to wind you up?"

Mycroft gave Greg a pointed look, and Greg huffed a laugh.

"All right, he absolutely would, but not _this_ time. You know, I think I'm finally starting to understand him. A bit. Mycroft…are you all right?"

It seemed that Greg might understand Sherlock better than he did himself, in some ways. Although he had encouraged their association, even relied upon it, Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about that…but this was not the time to consider his connection—or lack thereof—with his brother. "I'm very well," Mycroft assured him. "Although I feel the need to inform you that any efforts on your part to impress me are, by now, superfluous."

Greg squinted at him for a moment, then ducked his head, grinning and blushing. "Yeah? Well…you haven't seen the seats we have yet. Last minute purchase and all—they certainly won't impress you. Sorry."

The seats _were_ dreadful and Mycroft was nevertheless once again transported by the entire experience. Greg's knee pressed against his during the performance, a warm and welcome reminder of his presence, and bobbed adorably in time with the Barcarolle. Mycroft wondered what it might be like to take him dancing—somewhere, somehow. When their hands touched on the armrest and Mycroft's fingers curled around Greg's and pulled his hand to rest lightly atop his thigh, Greg offered no objection. When the performance concluded, Greg applauded with enthusiastic approval and an enormous smile at Mycroft that was positively electrifying. Mycroft, very close to being out of control of his emotions, beamed at him.

The temperature had cooled considerably and the stars were twinkling between blue-grey streaks of cloud when they exited the theatre along with their fellow concert attendees. The crowds at the café tables in the Place de l'Horloge outside the opera house were dwindling and the breeze rustled the leaves of a brightly lit row of tall trees. The night seemed to Mycroft to have an air of quiet contentment. Or he was simply happy. He refused, for the moment, to deconstruct the sensation. Perhaps Greg shared a similar feeling, for he drew in a deep, satisfied breath and looked up at the sky with a smile.

They walked through the softly-lit streets chatting with shared humor about their vastly different experiences of music, while Mycroft simultaneously allowed himself to imagine Greg sitting alongside him in his private box at the Royal Opera House for the season's performances. He swung his umbrella jauntily in time with his step, walking closely enough with Greg that their arms or shoulders brushed frequently, loathe to be out of physical contact with him. When they arrived back at the car, Mycroft stopped Greg with a hand on his arm as he was unlocking the door.

"Greg, thank you for this evening. I've enjoyed it immensely."

Greg turned to lean back against the car door and smiled. "You're welcome." He looked smug, and well he should.

Then all Greg did was reach out and brush one finger along the inner edge of the lapel of Mycroft's blazer, a light, simple touch, but Mycroft felt a charge run through his body at the sense of intimacy the small gesture conveyed. Mycroft did not approve of the public display of affection, at least not for himself—after all, one never knew who might be watching—but he was moments away from recklessly disregarding that guideline. He shivered in frustration. "Greg?"

"Yes?" Greg's eyes were so very dark and always dancing. He moved his hand to Mycroft's tie, holding the knot gently between his fingers. "Is there something you want?"

Mycroft swallowed. "Greg. I…want…I need…" He spoke five languages fluently. English was one of them, but suddenly he had no words. His brain was empty. His brow furrowed as his agitation seemed to vibrate palpably in the air. The teasing expression slid away from Greg's face. He put his hand on the back of Mycroft's head and pulled him in for a kiss, open-mouthed, gentle, and searching, and—ah, that was it. That was precisely what it was he had wanted to say. "You," Mycroft breathed. "I need _you_. I want _you_." He started a subtle, seductive campaign of slow, soft kisses that began at the base of Greg's throat and meandered upward.

"Mycroft?" Greg's voice was ragged in his ear, his fingers softly massaging the back of Mycroft's neck.

This was what bliss felt like, wasn't it? "Yes?" Mycroft's voice came out in a whisper.

"Stay with me tonight."

Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled a long sigh, wondering how he would possibly survive the return drive. "I would like that very much."

xxx

When they arrived back at the villa, thanks to Mycroft's call ahead to the house manager, a bottle of wine and a tray of delicious-looking confections—small cakes, macaroons, meringues, and delicate, flaky puff pastries—were waiting in Greg's bedroom. Greg popped a chocolate cup filled with lemon cream into his mouth on his way to the shower.

When he came back out, still damp-skinned and damp-haired, Mycroft was already waiting for him, pouring two glasses of wine. A half-eaten strawberry cake rested on a small plate beside him. He was wearing a silky russet-colored dressing gown over a set of similarly silky buttoned-up dark blue pyjamas, looking decorous and conservative. Even in sleepwear, Mycroft managed an untouchable look that challenged Greg to touch and muss and rumple all the man's self-control entirely away. "Hello." Greg's voice came out much more huskily than he had expected it to.

Greg was wearing nothing but the towel around his hips. When Mycroft turned toward him, his cheeks flushed with approval at the sight of Greg's exposed body, and Greg took a moment to congratulate himself on every extra second he'd resentfully spent at the gym after his divorce when he'd really rather have been home lying on his sofa with a slice of pizza in his hand. He circled Mycroft slowly, letting the backs of his fingers slip across the smooth fabric of his dressing gown. "You know, Mycroft, when I think about undressing you, it's usually the suit."

Mycroft raised his hand to just barely touch the leather cord at Greg's throat, his eyes lingering on the charm attached to it—a small, simple, gold five-pointed star. His gaze drifted down to Greg's towel-clad hips. "You've…made undressing you an easy task for me, I see."

"I'm not feeling especially shy."

"Good," Mycroft's eyes met Greg's. He brushed his fingers against the side of Greg's waist. "That's good, isn't it?" He licked his lips. He looked hungry. "Would you…like to start with a glass of wine?"

"No." Greg pulled his towel off and dropped it on the floor. "I wouldn't."

"Ah," Mycroft breathed.

Greg pressed himself against Mycroft and slid his body up until he was on standing on his toes. "You feel good." His mouth met Mycroft's already-parted lips. Greg kissed him, languid and deep, his fingertips tracing light patterns across the silk. "You taste good." _Mint and strawberries._ "You always taste good. Come here."

He pulled Mycroft away from the table, into the soft white light in the center of the room. He wanted to see what he was doing. He wanted to see Mycroft respond. "Hold still." He studied Mycroft's half-closed blue eyes. "All right?"

Mycroft nodded dreamily. "All right."

There was no rush. Greg reminded himself there was no rush. He smoothed Mycroft's hair back and kissed his face near the corner of his eye, where there should be more laugh lines. He untied the belt around Mycroft's waist. The fabric of the dressing gown sighed as it fell open. Greg slid his palms over the dark blue silk covering Mycroft's chest, feeling the small peaks of his nipples and where the texture underneath changed from smooth skin to springy hair. A little tuft of reddish curls peeked out of the top of Mycroft's pyjamas. Greg brushed his nose against it and Mycroft's breath gusted out. His hands continued to move, slowly, experimentally, over the gently padded curve of Mycroft's stomach, dipping below the front his pyjama waistband where his fingers encountered another tuft of hair.

Mycroft swayed into his touch. His eyes were closed and the tip of his tongue was touching the corner of his mouth, his expression soft and relaxed. He was rubbing folds at the side of his dressing gown methodically between his fingers.

Greg thought he had figured something out. Another piece of the Mycroft puzzle. Something Mycroft wanted. Something he was afraid to name, but clearly craved. Something Greg should have noticed much earlier.

Soft.

Mycroft liked soft, craved soft. Soft clothes, soft music, soft voices, soft touches and kisses. Maybe it was because there were enough hard and cold things in his life. God knew there were in Greg's, too—beatings, murders, cruelty, apathy, lies, hate. There were times all he wanted, _needed_, was something that was soft and warm and simple. And just maybe he could make it okay for Mycroft—strange, fascinating, powerful, isolated Mycroft, swathed neck-to-ankle in silk before him—to want that, too.

Greg crouched down on one knee and stroked from the back of Mycroft's knees, stroked down his calves and back up the front of his thighs. Strong thighs. Mycroft made a low humming sound. Greg let his hands travel higher, kneaded his thumbs into the crease where Mycroft's thighs met his hips, and sent a heavy, hot breath over the swell of his growing erection. He wasn't sure whether Mycroft would feel it through the layer of fabric, but the humming sound was repeated, louder, and Mycroft's hand moved to rest lightly on top of Greg's head. Greg smiled his satisfaction at this gesture of encouragement.

He rose, reaching for Mycroft's hands and placing them on his own hips. Mycroft's palms felt warm and damp against Greg's bare skin. "Now you."

Mycroft's eyes opened, their grey now hot and smoky, and locked onto his, and Greg's breath caught in his throat as the phrase _the most dangerous man you've ever met_ flashed into his mind. _Oh, God._ He'd found the _on_ switch, all right.

Mycroft pulled Greg against him firmly, deliberately, hip-to-hip, put his mouth on Greg's neck and paused there, breathing in his scent. Then there were teeth raking slowly down the side of his neck, and a flick of tongue that made him tremble, ending in a soft bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. No, he reminded himself, tipping his head back to expose his throat, he _had_ seen Mycroft's reflection in mirrors. "Jesus," he groaned. Heat rushed from everywhere in his overheated body into his groin.

Mycroft rumbled his approval, and kissed the sensitive spot behind Greg's earlobe as he stroked his hands down Greg's back and pulled him in even more tightly, rubbing their erections together. Greg grunted inelegantly, clutched two handfuls of silk at Mycroft's waist and hung on as Mycroft moved against him, and _Christ_ he would never think of a set of pyjamas as conservative again. His skin tingled with slippery friction. He closed his eyes, shutting everything else out, and _felt_.

He found himself being walked backwards toward his bed as short, manicured nails raked his back. He pulled at Mycroft's shoulders, strained forward to kiss him. Mycroft nipped at his lower lip, denying him, and shoved him onto the bed and _okay_, maybe not _everything_ Mycroft liked was soft. Then Mycroft pushed his thighs apart and took Greg's cock into his mouth and every word of glorious praise Greg tried to utter came out blissfully profane. When Mycroft sucked on one of his long, white fingers and pressed it into Greg, Greg lost the power to summon words altogether. He bucked and wriggled and moaned, bereft of all dignity, until finally Mycroft, lips wrapped around the head of Greg's cock, looked up at him and Greg came as if he'd been commanded to.

Mycroft snaked an arm under his hips and rocked him through his orgasm. As Greg's thighs trembled with aftershocks, Mycroft kissed his way up his stomach and his chest and his throat and whispered, "Beautiful" in his ear. He rolled them over together onto their sides and pulled Greg's hand to his groin, pressing his erection into his palm. "Please." It was a plea. It was a politeness. It was also an order.

Greg wriggled his trapped arm out from beneath his own body to pull Mycroft's head to his for a desperate kiss as his other hand began to move, stroking Mycroft's silk-covered cock. When Greg slid his hand inside Mycroft's pyjamas and finally touched him skin to skin, Mycroft pressed his face into the crook of Greg's shoulder and groaned loudly, incoherently. It might have been his name, but Greg wasn't sure. And, fuck, why was there no _lube_, wasn't Mycroft supposed to plan for everything? He licked his palm and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft again, who was bright pink from his forehead to his collarbones with the flush of pleasure. When Mycroft came, it was with his face buried in Greg's neck and fingers digging hard into Greg's arse cheek, and Greg was the one who groaned, "Oh, God."

They held one another, panting and damp with sweat, in silence broken only by the soft sounds of the kisses Greg pressed to Mycroft's face. Mycroft petted the line of Greg's hip and thigh and blinked as though he'd just stepped into bright sunlight.

"Wow," said Greg.

Mycroft laughed softly. "Agreed."

Greg kissed the crinkles at the corners of his eye.

"I…" Mycroft looked down at himself, "need to clean up. I apologize. I wasn't…well-prepared."

"Was this," Greg pointed, chuckling, toward Mycroft's now-sticky pyjama bottoms, "somehow a surprise to you? Because I thought my general intentions were clear."

Mycroft contemplated him with a wry smile. "Yes. Your intentions _were_ clear, but even so…you make me…even when I know what to expect, you always surprise me. I don't entirely understand it."

"Is that a good thing?"

Mycroft's response was a hard, determined kiss.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then?" Greg said when his lips were again freed, tingling.

"Do."

While Mycroft excused himself to his room, dressing gown wrapped around his body to conceal his disarray, Greg picked up his discarded towel and made his own visit to the loo. He straightened the rumpled duvet upon his return to the bed. Deciding nudity was a fine theme for the night, he crawled into bed without donning any additional clothing.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

"Er. Come in?"

The door opened and Mycroft appeared, still in his russet dressing gown but having changed into a set of cream-colored cotton pyjamas and a worried expression. "You…do _want_ me actually to sleep here with you? Is that correct?"

Greg sat up. "Of course I want you to sleep here." Mycroft smiled, looking reassured. Greg watched him curiously as he closed the door and padded across the room. "You…um…don't you usually spend the night with…lovers in your…other relationships?" he asked, feeling awkward at the topic of _other relationships_. A lot of people didn't, he was well aware, but Greg acknowledged himself to be a cuddler and had always liked his partners to share his bed after sex.

"Lovers." Mycroft paused beside the bed and rolled the word on his tongue, snorted a humorless laugh, then looked away, frowning and avoiding Greg's eyes. "I don't have 'lovers.' In the past…I have…for the most part…had 'arrangements' more so than 'relationships,'" he said haltingly. "And, no, we did not typically spend the night together."

Greg blinked as he processed Mycroft's careful choices of terminology. "I see."

Mycroft pulled his dressing gown around himself a little tighter, still looking away. "You disapprove."

Greg looked at him. His hair was still wildly disheveled, and disapproval was not at all what Greg felt. "No." The sex had been brilliant, but this was where lovemaking truly began. Greg Lestrade knew what Mycroft Holmes needed, what _he_ needed himself, what he so badly wanted to give: _I'm going to hold you, Mycroft, so softly, all night._ He pulled the covers back. "Get in."

xxx

The light in Greg's bedroom was cool grey and a gentle rain was pattering against the windowpane when Mycroft returned through the door from the hallway. He had slipped away earlier, beset by a romantic notion, with a kiss to Greg's forehead and some low words of morning greeting that Greg clearly hadn't been quite alert enough to take in. He returned with a beautiful breakfast tray for his lover, complete with a silver cream and sugar set and a cheerful yellow flower in a vase. Greg, sleepy-eyed and deliciously rumpled, ran a hand through his hair and wriggled up to a sitting position.

Greg blinked several times and took in Mycroft's jeans—Mycroft noticed how much Greg seemed to like it when he wore jeans—and lightweight heather green knit jumper. His face broke into a wide grin as his eyes settled on the tray. "That's for me? Really?"

"Good morning," Mycroft said smoothly while his heart swelled with pride at Greg's surprised and delighted expression. "I have answered your roast beef sandwich challenge with brioches, fresh from this morning's oven." He put the tray down on the mattress next to Greg and sat down carefully on Greg's other side. "Butter. Raspberry jam, if you prefer. And of course, _café_."

Greg leaned over the brioches and inhaled. "Oh, that smells good." He reached for Mycroft's hand and pulled it to his mouth to drop a kiss on Mycroft's inner wrist. "Remind me to kiss the cook properly later."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "I'm sure Gerard will be flattered. He had already prepared these."

"Oh. Well. I think he will be, actually! I'm not so bad to kiss, I've been told."

"I expect he will count himself very fortunate."

Greg sighed and grinned at him significantly. "I could get used to this, you know." His eyes were warm and affectionate, and Mycroft's smile slipped.

_Oh, so could I_.

Mycroft thought there may not have been anything he had ever wanted more in his life than he now wanted to _get used to this_—waking up warm and contented next to Greg in the morning, being the reason Greg woke up warm and contented. It made his throat tight to think of it. He wanted it all the mornings. He wanted to watch him pull on his ludicrously bright socks, wanted to press his cheek against Greg's jaw and smell his skin just after he shaved, wanted to bring him tea when he came home after a long day of police work. _Home_. He was allowing terms like_ lover _and _home_ to infiltrate his mind now. Mycroft's jaw clenched. He had let himself go too far, indulged his foolish, sentimental desires and appetites to the point where he didn't know how he could possibly let them go. He didn't want to let them go. But let them go he must.

It always rained. The only question was when.

As Greg busied himself happily preparing his coffee, Mycroft rested his hand against the side of Greg's sheet-covered thigh in a soft, secret, defiant gesture of claim, and turned his face away toward the window to watch the rain fall.

* * *

xxx


	5. Chapter 5

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

John lay languid, full of tea and drowse, lengthwise on one of the white sofas in the salon with his head and sock-clad feet propped up on cushions at either end. The cream-colored draperies on the tall arched windows were drawn back to admit the soft grey light filtering through the steady rain falling outside. The trickles and patters of the raindrops were accompanied by the low purr of distant thunder. Sherlock was wandering the room with his violin tucked under his chin, idly sprinkling snippets and strains of melody into the afternoon's symphony. The music was nothing John recognized from what he'd heard of Sherlock's repertoire—a new composition, perhaps, but he was too comfortable and lethargic to ask. He nestled into his cushions and sighed his contentment.

The low crunch of automobile tires on gravel from the front driveway roused him to a slightly more alert state, followed by the thumps of two car doors opening and closing. Shortly afterward, the sounds of Greg and Mycroft chatting and clattering in through the front door moved him to shift a little regretfully to a sitting position. As the pair passed the entrance to the salon, Greg caught sight of John and gave a cheerful wave. John beckoned him in, asking, "What have you gotten up to today, then?"

"Van Gogh museum in Saint-Rémy," Greg announced, pushing up the sleeves of his grey jumper. "What?" he demanded at John's less-than-enthused expression. "It was nice!"

Mycroft trailed in behind Greg with a reluctant, surreptitious look at Sherlock. Sherlock brushed the pair with an assessing glance and smirked knowingly as he turned his attention back to his aimless room-wandering.

"I had my own personal docent," Greg nodded toward Mycroft, who favored him with a quiet smile. "Did you know he only sold one painting while he was alive, Van Gogh?"

"I think I read something about that, yeah," John nodded, noting the way Mycroft's eyes lingered on Greg. Apparently things were going well between the two of them. He wondered what Sherlock had deduced about them in that quick glance. John was reminded that this was the first time the four of them had been back in the same room together since Sherlock's rather horrifying explication of Mycroft's intentions toward Greg. He didn't think Mycroft and Sherlock had even spoken since.

"Makes me sad, you know? His whole story. And so much beautiful work. We read some of his letters to Theo—that's his brother—and they were quite moving, I thought." Greg dropped into an upholstered armchair next to John's sofa and slouched comfortably. "He died shortly after Vincent…how soon was it, Mycroft?"

"Six months," Mycroft said quietly, moving behind Greg's chair.

"Mm," John nodded, pressing a finger over his lips.

"And then it was _his_ wife who eventually got Van Gogh's paintings properly noticed. But that's family for you, right?"

"I suppose so," John grinned at Greg's newfound enthusiasm for both the arts and for family ties, even though his own personal experiences with each had been less inspiring. With his parents dead and his sister all but estranged, the word _family_ mostly meant "something for other people" to him. His army mates had felt like brothers…for a while, until they were gone, too. Sherlock was the closest thing he had now, but the term seemed a pale descriptor for their bond—at least as John experienced it. He'd never spoken much of family in his conversations with Greg in the past, apart from a fairly awkward expression of sympathy when Greg's divorce had been finalized. Had the Detective Inspector wanted children from his marriage? If so, did he still want children with a future partner? John was fairly sure he would have at least given the question due consideration…much as John himself had.

Mycroft made only a mild noncommittal hum in response to the mention of family.

"What about you two?" Greg asked.

"Today? Oh, we've been fairly idle, but it's been good. Relaxing. I could really get used to this, you know?" John stretched contentedly and smiled toward Sherlock, who turned his head and flashed him a hard, almost angry look. Surprised, John let the question show in his eyes, furrowing his brow slightly. _What's wrong?_ Sherlock shook his head and turned away. _Later, then_, John resolved.

"I've been saying the same thing," Greg grinned.

Sherlock brought his violin to rest on his shoulder and began pacing, prowling, bow poised but not playing.

Mycroft, his expression somber, brushed a speck of something invisible to John from Greg's shoulder. "We particularly enjoyed a production of _Tales of Hoffman_ yesterday evening in Avignon," he murmured, surreptitiously watching his brother from beneath lowered lids.

Sherlock wandered to the far side of the salon, keeping his back negligently to Mycroft and Greg, but his posture seemed more alert than disinterested to John.

John raised his eyebrows theatrically at Greg. "_You_ enjoyed the opera?"

"Just because _you're_ an uncivilized…"

"Philistine?" Mycroft suggested.

"Yeah, _philistine_…doesn't mean the rest of us are," Greg shot back pompously. "Berk."

John snorted.

"What was that one about it being a beautiful night?" Greg asked with a look up and over his shoulder at Mycroft.

Mycroft's lips twitched. He drifted away from Greg's chair to take a seat at the baby grand piano and played several bars of a pretty melody, vaguely familiar to John. Oh, and apparently Mycroft played the piano. John supposed that shouldn't be a surprise that Sherlock was not the only musically-inclined member of his family. Of course, Sherlock had never mentioned it, just as he had never voluntarily offered _any_ information about his family. John still knew next to nothing about them. His few inquiries had been met with such pained expressions from Sherlock that John now avoided pressing his thumb into that particular bruise.

"That's it!" Greg exclaimed.

"_Belle nuit_, the Barcarolle," Mycroft looked at Greg fondly. "It was…a beautiful night. I'm very—" Mycroft paused and cleared his throat. "I'm very _grateful_ we had the opportunity to attend the performance."

Mycroft cast a speculative glance at Sherlock, who was frowning vaguely toward a far corner of them room with a wary expression. Mycroft shifted again on the piano bench, slowly returned his attention to the keyboard, and began playing the opening chords of another piece, a light and lilting tune that reminded John of something a beautiful, delicate music box might play.

Sherlock's restless movement stilled. He turned toward Mycroft with the light of recognition in his eyes, and something else John couldn't quite place—something startled, pensive, bittersweet? The look was gone before John could analyze it as Sherlock deliberately blanked his expression.

Mycroft's playing rose, softened, and then seemed almost to hesitate, a tremulous pause before it went into a second round of the piano's melodic line. Sherlock silently fitted his violin into position and began to play along in that pause, closing his eyes, his notes and movements smooth and connected. Both his posture and his face relaxed into the piece at the same time John saw Mycroft's shoulders relax where he sat at the piano.

They played together easily, naturally, piano and violin trading the melody and harmony back and forth, connecting and separating and re-connecting. John blinked, enthralled.

He glanced at Greg, who was sat forward on the edge of his chair with his forehead creased and his lips slightly parted, watching Mycroft's elegant hands flow across the keyboard. No doubt he heard the violin's contribution but he clearly saw only the pianist.

There was a sweetness in this music, an almost lullaby-innocence, alternating and interchanging tentative approaches and wistful retreats. John felt as though he was hearing a very private conversation in a language he did not speak…but then Sherlock and Mycroft always seemed to be speaking in a language all their own. John had thought French was difficult to interpret, but it was nothing compared with _Holmes_. He could understand the tone, but he would probably never understand the words.

When the piece concluded, Mycroft turned on the bench to look at Sherlock, who during the duet had moved to stand just behind his brother's shoulder. John started to speak, praise for the performance, but the expression on Sherlock's face stopped him. He glanced at Greg, who seemed similarly moved to a respectful silence. Sherlock opened his eyes, and the brothers exchanged a long, unfathomable look.

"The Fauré?" asked Mycroft quietly. Sherlock made no response other than to adjust his shirt collar against the chinrest and ready his violin again. Mycroft turned back to the piano and they began to play as one. John realized he was clutching a throw cushion and that he'd been holding his breath for some reason, and he heard a long inhale from where Greg sat, as well.

The second work, _the Fauré_ apparently, was shorter than their first but no less beautiful. To John's ears, violin and piano had sounded very evenly matched in the previous composition, but this piece showcased Sherlock's talents. Mycroft's gentle chords and arpeggios provided a steady support for the violin's sometimes soaring, sometimes frenetic melody. Still, there was a give and take within the music, the occasional reminder from the piano that it _could_ have the melody if it so chose.

They were in a private sitting room with two men whose chosen occupations had nothing to do with music, but John doubted he could have heard a more well-meshed or beautiful performance of either of these pieces by professionals in a formal concert hall. There did exist the faint possibility that he was biased, mesmerized as he was by Sherlock's lithe, swaying form and the echoes of his music in the expressions on his face as he played. Sherlock, when he was truly engaged by what he was doing, displayed a breathtaking intensity that John knew he would never tire of watching.

At the end of this piece, John could not withhold his exhilaration, breaking into a wide grin as he and Greg applauded enthusiastically. Sherlock faced his small but rapt audience, swept a deep bow, and sent an entirely immodest smile in John's direction.

"That was fantastic," John proclaimed, practically vibrating with pride.

Mycroft, who apparently was not entirely immune to praise himself, turned with a remarkably similar smile directed at Greg. Greg's eyes were large and shining with unabashed admiration.

"Really, really beautiful," Greg agreed.

"I'm not sure which one of you to snog first, to be honest," John teased. Mycroft gave him a disturbed grimace and Sherlock gave him a ferocious glare in response. John beamed his satisfaction at these results at both of them.

"Back off," growled Greg with humor as he pointed at Mycroft. "That one's mine." Mycroft's eyes snapped to Greg's in surprise and he ducked his head quickly, but not before John saw him flush pink. So…things were going _very_ well between them. John supposed, with a helplessly adoring look at Sherlock, that madder things had happened. They were all a bit mad, weren't they? Like called to like.

"Is there more, then?" John asked.

Mycroft glanced uncertainly toward Sherlock. "We may have learned a few more pieces together."

Sherlock shrugged and much to John's surprise volunteered, "Our mother made Mycroft…made us practice duets sometimes when we were boys."

"Sherlock hated it," Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

"The Dvořák Romance—the first one—was one I liked, though," Sherlock admitted.

"Yes," said Mycroft quietly, "I remember."

"So…" John looked back and forth between them. "That's sorted. You'll play some more."

"That's got my vote," Greg agreed.

"We're not performing monkeys, John," Sherlock huffed, but he did not look significantly put out. In fact, both brothers were looking pleased with themselves.

"Yes, you are. Tonight, you are," John asserted confidently. "Oh, I know!" In a burst of inspiration he leapt up and moved forward to grab Sherlock's left arm, twisting it to check the time on his watch. "Tea should be out. Let's bring it in here!"

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged another inscrutable glance, and Mycroft sighed his resignation. "Of course," he said. "I'll ring—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," John interrupted, "it's just in the next room. I'll go fetch a tray." He marched toward the door to the hallway before anyone could attempt further denial of his brilliant plan.

"Bring…bring back some of the madeleines, would you?" Mycroft called after him. He blinked at Greg and explained, gravely, "They're quite lemony."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. John cringed, fearing an impending lash of inappropriate humor directed toward Mycroft's diet, but Sherlock only offered mildly, "Yesterday there were _tartes croustillantes aux pistache et cerise_."

Mycroft made a quite undignified _yummy_ noise, and John and Greg both snickered. "All right," John said, "what does this crusty tart thing look like? I'll see if Gerard put any out again today."

Sherlock moved toward John. "I'll come—"

"No, you'll stay. Keep your…fingers warm, or whatever musicians do. Greg can help. Come on, Greg, I expect you're in fact a bit of an expert on crusty tarts, aren't you?"

"I've sampled my fair share," Greg allowed, with an absurd leer.

Sherlock and Mycroft sighed identical, long-suffering sighs as John and Greg, giggling like idiots, exited in the direction of the dining room.

They stood together, waiting side by side in well-practiced silence.

"You know this changes nothing between us, Mycroft," Sherlock said after several stretched minutes.

Mycroft looked sideways at the proud angle of Sherlock's profile and smiled to himself. "I know, Sherlock. And…well-played."

Sherlock smiled to himself as well. "You, too."

xxx

After several hours of intermingled violin and piano performances and a great deal of tea and nibbles, Greg had lured Mycroft away to a softly-lit covered patio at the side of the house for some private time. The misting rain and the trees whispered secrets to each other in the cool darkness beyond the edge of the lamplight. He had brought a plate with a few madeleines and the last remaining pistachio-cherry cake from tea, offering them as a reward for the performance. In truth he had discovered he just liked watching the way Mycroft savored delicious things. The face he made…

And so Greg leaned over Mycroft's feet, propped up in his lap as he semi-reclined on the cushioned outdoor sofa, and helped himself to a madeleine as he watched Mycroft sucking powdered sugar from the tips of his fingers. Mycroft's eyes were closed and he wore a small, blissful smile of satisfaction. "I recognize that expression, now, you know," Greg said around a particularly lemony mouthful of cake.

Mycroft opened his eyes halfway and slid a mischievous look at Greg. "That is because I also find you to be delectable."

Even if the soft light, Greg could tell his cheeks had flushed slightly. Greg had started to notice Mycroft blushed after every foray into flirtation and thought it wise—not to mention fun—to reward each attempt. He squeezed one of Mycroft's feet, pressing his thumbs into the knit of his dark grey sock to massage the sole. Mycroft hummed and wriggled his toes.

"Your socks are dull," noted Greg.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg's audacity in offering insult to his attire, but replied simply, "I'm a dull man."

"And I'm Posh Spice. Stop squirming." He squeezed the ball of Mycroft's foot into his palm.

Mycroft relaxed into Greg's ministrations, closing his eyes again. "You have wonderful hands," he sighed contentedly.

"You're the one with the talented hands."

"You _really_ liked the piano?" Mycroft opened his eyes, perking up hopefully. "Or...oh. Do you mean…the _other_…way I…use my hands?"

"Both. Definitely _both_." He grinned at the bright spots of color now tinting Mycroft's cheeks. "I didn't know you played so well. But you would, wouldn't you? Other foot."

"So you did enjoy it? You weren't just…being kind?"

"Other foot. Or you'll be lopsided."

Mycroft dutifully switched the cross of his long legs to offer Greg more comfortable access to his other foot.

"I was…proud of you," Greg shrugged with his eyes directed down toward Mycroft's feet. Even his feet seemed elegant, in their conservative dark socks. He wasn't sure he had a right to feel proud of Mycroft yet. He hoped he didn't take it as an insult, but when Greg looked at his face again he was surprised to see that Mycroft looked almost euphoric. He felt his own cheeks warm with pleasure. "All right, that's sorted. I'm adding that to my list."

"Adding what to your list of what?"

Greg wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's ankle. "Piano playing. To my list of things for you to do for me. _Just_ for me. Private performance."

"Oh, I see. How fortunate for you, then, that I live to serve. And what other tasks might be on this list?"

"Well." Greg drawled the word. He slid his hand under Mycroft's trouser leg to squeeze his calf. "Now that you've offered to, you could cook me a proper meal, _ideally_ with a steak." Mycroft's lips quirked. "And…the rest are indecent. Do you want to hear them?" he asked hopefully.

"Upstairs?" Mycroft chuckled. "I'd be delighted."

"That would be the goal." Greg planned to get Mycroft out of those sexy silk pyjamas tonight. He was going to continue his massage, properly. He was going to find all the freckles. He was going to see if he could still give a really good blow job. He was going to see how pink Mycroft would turn when he told him in graphic detail what he wanted to do with him. And all the things he wanted Mycroft to do with his fingers. "Come here," he demanded, reaching for Mycroft's hands, because right now he had to kiss him.

Mycroft shifted his feet off Greg's lap and allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position, meeting Greg in the middle of the sofa. He tasted as good as ever when Greg kissed him—this time like tea and cherries. Sod wine tasting. Mycroft tasting was really much more fun, and Greg thought it was probably equally intoxicating. _God, I am in trouble here. Real trouble._ He pulled Mycroft in closer, putting his passion and fear and wonder into another kiss.

"Do you know," Mycroft panted when Greg finally loosened his hold on the man, "I think I've just started my own list."

"Have you now? I can't wait to hear."

"Greg. Upstairs."

"Yeah, good." Greg scooted to the edge of the sofa. "Upstairs sounds very good."

"I'm not sure how much of these lists we can accommodate during the remainder of our visit here," Mycroft said, pausing before standing and curling his fingers around Greg's, "but I'm certainly willing to give the effort my full attention."

Greg brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed the backs of those fingers. Flirtation acknowledged and rewarded. "Well, mine is a very _long_ list. And growing. Lucky we don't have to finish it off here, though. There's plenty of time when we get back to London."

It was just a flicker. Just for a moment. Just a ghost. Something he doubted anyone else would have noticed. Mycroft's features did not alter their expression at all, but suddenly his eyes were different…as though a stranger had moved behind them. "Isn't there…Mycroft?" A damp, chill breeze washed against the back of Greg's neck. "Plenty of time. When we get back to London."

Mycroft lowered his head.

"Mycroft?"

xxx

With the salon theirs again, John pulled Sherlock against him on the sofa, shifting and maneuvering him so the sharper angles of Sherlock's lean form rested a little more comfortably against his own more solid frame. Sherlock allowed himself to be positioned and then relaxed into John's arms. "This afternoon was lovely, you know," John said into the mass of curls now at his shoulder. "So…what was that really all about?"

"It's called music. You've heard it before—I've done my best to ensure it."

"What was that all about _with Mycroft_?"

Sherlock, electing as he so often did to remain verbally unresponsive, squirmed against him and John repositioned them both so Sherlock's back rested flush against his chest. John ran his fingers soothingly across Sherlock's temples, into his hair. "All right. Let's try another question, then. What was that look you gave me earlier?"

"What look?"

"Come on. Is something wrong? You've been different here. And now I'm getting _looks_."

"I look at you a lot. You'll have to be more specific."

"Stupid doesn't suit you, Sherlock. Why does this always have to be so difficult? Just tell me."

Sherlock did not respond, but John felt the tension in his body and petted him again.

"Please."

Sherlock sighed and twisted his head around so he could look up at John, perplexed. "Why does that word work for you but not for me?"

"Because I mean it."

Sherlock settled his chin back on his chest. Silently.

"Sherlock," John said sternly. Brother stuff was one thing. If Sherlock wanted to keep that to himself, John would not press for more. This _look_ was another matter entirely. Something was going on in that funny old head of his, as Mrs. Hudson would call it, and it was important to drag it out before it grew tentacles.

"Fine," Sherlock said a little too sharply, thrusting himself to a standing position. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at John with grim determination. "You said you could get used to this."

John wriggled into an upright position on the sofa. "Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"You like it here."

John looked around at the large, comfortable room, and fancied for a moment he could still hear beautiful music echoing off the walls. "Of course I like it here. Who wouldn't like it here? _You_ like it here." Attempting to fathom Sherlock's emotions so often made him feel as though he'd been issued a rubber duck and then instructed to go deep sea diving.

"No, John. You _like_ it _here_."

John squinted up at Sherlock as he tried to interpret the subtext of the conversation…or even the text. "I'm…going to need a little more than that, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at the floor. "You said you like _me_ like this."

John struggled with recollection. "You mean…at the pool? I like you…relaxed and happy and sex-crazed? Christ, Sherlock, of _course_ I like you like that. Or at least I _thought_ you were relaxed and happy." He deflated a little. "I thought you were having a nice time, too. You said you weren't bored."

Sherlock just looked at him.

John sighed as the specifics of the conversation came back to him. "No. You _didn't_ say that, did you? Sherlock…we can go back home, if you're bored." John couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. He was well aware that his frequently manic-minded, London-to-the-bone detective was not meant to while away his time lounging about the French countryside, but he'd hoped that for a _few_ days Sherlock might enjoy John's company just for itself….

"No. You're missing the point," said Sherlock flatly, jaw tightening in frustration. "It's not about being bored."

John shrugged helplessly. "Then what is the point?"

Sherlock scowled and began shifting his weight from foot to foot, a dance of impatience. "I can't be like _that_ all the time." He pointed in the vague direction of the pool.

"Yes…I know that. But this is a _holiday_, I don't expect—"

"But you obviously wish I could be." Sherlock's voice was pinched. "Could be…more."

"More?"

"More, yes, _more_."

"How could you be _more_?" John blinked, bewildered. "You're…" _Everything. What does that make me? _

Then realization struck, and John stared open-mouthed at Sherlock.

"Hang on. Are you saying…you...you…bloody…force of nature, you think _you're_ not enough for _me_?" He huffed a disbelieving laugh. "My God. You…complete fucking _idiot_."

"You like it _here_. You like me like _this_. You could get used to _this_," he lobbed the evidence of John's words back at him. "_I'm_ not the one who said it."

"I see." John nodded slowly. He had dealt with his fair share—more than his fair share—of his temperamental, frequently childish partner's carryings-on. Maybe a better man wouldn't have enjoyed it as much as John did, even through his frustration, enjoyed the attention, enjoyed being the one Sherlock carried on _about_ and _with_. He was usually able to meet any wobblies thrown with patience and humor, but right now what he was feeling was the complete opposite of patience and humor. "Sherlock, come with me."

John stood and led his complete fucking idiot by the hand from the room.

xxx

Mycroft pulled his hand free from Greg's and rose slowly to his feet. "I had hoped to delay this conversation at least a few more days," he sighed.

"What conversation?" The chill Greg felt on his neck moved into his hands as Mycroft looked down at him with eyes now cooled of their ardor, as though the curtains had been drawn in a sunny room. He mustn't jump to conclusions. It must be something about his work. Yes, that's all it was. Did Mycroft have to…go away? Do something dangerous? Greg bristled protectively, even though he knew perfectly well—or at least strongly suspected—both possibilities were a regular part of Mycroft's life. "What's wrong? Can I help?"

Mycroft flinched, then took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back, standing very straight. He looked like he was about to present a speech. "The time we have spent here has been a…a wonderful interlude."

"A _wonderful interlude_?" Greg rubbed his hands on his trouser legs to warm them as he considered the descriptor. "Yeah, all right?"

Mycroft's turned his head toward the garden to watch the silver needles of rain falling on the edge of the darkness beyond the glow of their patio lights. "Greg, you must realize that we cannot continue in this manner when we return to London."

"What? No, I don't realize that. In what _manner_?"

"I have tried to make the most of our time here—for both of us" Mycroft continued carefully, "but I do not wish to mislead you…or perhaps mislead you further than I already have done…into thinking it can be more than just that: a wonderful interlude."

"Mislead me?" Greg felt like his chest had filled with ice water. What the hell was happening? There had just been music and cakes and kisses. He could still taste lemon and cherry-flavored Mycroft in his mouth. He could still feel the texture of Mycroft's socks on his fingertips. They were supposed to go upstairs. They were going to be friends and lovers now. Together. That was _Mycroft's_ idea. _Mycroft_ had brought him here. He hadn't _imagined_ all that. "Is this how your _seduction plan_ was meant to end all along? Use me and…drop me? Is that what's happening here?"

Mycroft frowned, his gaze looking increasingly brittle. "You misunderstand me."

Greg swallowed down his instincts. Adrenaline was sending spiders crawling down his forearms. He stood so he could face Mycroft eye to eye. "All right. I hope I do. Tell me…please tell me what you want."

"My…admiration for you is sincere. Of course I would like to see you again. If that's what you want. I'm sure we can make arrangements—"

"Arrangements. If that's what _I_ want? You mean like your other _arrangements_?" he said quietly.

Mycroft's mask slipped. His face was very pale. "When we began our…association…I never expected…I never dreamt it would go so far, so quickly. But when we return to London, I will not be the man you know here. He will no longer exist."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

Mycroft raised his chin. "When we leave this villa I have nothing to offer you in terms of…a relationship. It's for the best that you understand that now. This affair cannot continue. It _will_ not continue."

God, this was all too familiar. He'd tried so hard to do right by his marriage. He wasn't in love any more, but he'd made a _vow_, for Christ's sake. And now…now he _was_ falling in love. He thought he was. Had been. But it was just him again, wasn't it? Here he was about to repeat the same sad, desperate lines, because what else were you meant to do? "Mycroft, listen to me. Please. Whatever's putting you off, we…we can work it out, yeah?" Greg impulsively gripped Mycroft's shoulders, squeezed them, tried to draw him in. If he could just _hold_ him, surely he would stop talking rubbish. Surely he would _feel_ how good they were together.

"_Stop it_," Mycroft hissed, pulling away. Greg dropped his hands, stung. "Don't _grovel_. This is difficult enough as it is."

"This is _difficult_?" Greg's voice cracked humiliatingly and his empty hands curled into fists. "You fucking…you _cold_…bastard…you…_fuck_ you!"

Mycroft's posture relaxed as if he'd been welcomed home.

When Greg walked away, Mycroft did not call him back.

xxx

Sometimes, John had learned early on, you had to be firm with a Holmes.

John arched backward, pressing into the slow, panting, humid, open-mouthed kisses Sherlock was smearing across the back of his shoulders and neck. He felt full and sensitive and raw. This wasn't a variation they practiced often, Sherlock inside him. It still felt thrilling and very _new_—almost dangerous—but any feelings of vulnerability he may have had were swept away by the strange, ardent physical tenderness Sherlock offered him every time they made love this way. John felt worshipped. Maybe that's exactly what it was. It was never spoken aloud, but could be no more evident in the careful way Sherlock moved inside John, huddled protectively over his back, all his concentration focused on balancing his own rough-edged need with John's pleasure. Even without the intense physical sensations, that glimpse alone of Sherlock's steadfast effort at self-control, the knowledge that he mattered this _much_ to Sherlock, made the act something bordering on transcendent for John.

The first time they had tried it, Sherlock lost his erection entirely. The next two times, Sherlock hadn't lasted more than thirty seconds, the sensations had been so intense. Finally, when they made it last, the first time John came with Sherlock inside him, with the morning sun warming their bed and Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock, he came so hard he legitimately though he may have burst a blood vessel. Sherlock had glowed with almost insufferable pride for days. The time after that, John's brightly blissful comment afterward about how much he wished he'd been doing this for years had set Sherlock off on a tight-mouthed, door-slamming, couch-flopping sulk that lasted well into the evening before John worked out what the issue was. He crawled into bed that night and smoothed his hand down Sherlock's sullenly-presented back, "I meant doing this for years _with you_, you idiot. _Only_ with you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock answered tightly, but when John turned out the bedside lamp, Sherlock had rolled over, kissed his ear, snuggled against him, and gone right to sleep—and that was the end of _that_ tantrum.

Now, Sherlock curled around John like a starfish latched onto on a rock, his breath sounding more and more like a freight train as he struggled to control the depth and speed of his thrusts. John turned his head to the side as far as he could, seeking Sherlock's kiss. Their lips met sloppily, eagerly, and Sherlock shifted his body with caution and care, balancing his weight on one arm so he could hold his hand lightly, ever so gently, at the base of John's throat.

"John," he breathed. It was the only word Sherlock ever said when he was inside John—when he said anything at all—but John heard every intended meaning in it. He pressed his hips up and back in answer and Sherlock made a despairing sound.

John reached up to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head down. "Sherlock. Stop."

Sherlock stilled, trembling, sweating, waiting.

"Here's what's going to happen next. When I say, you're going to move again. And I'm going to tell you, until I run out of breath or coherent thought, how much I love you, because as mind-bogglingly arrogant as you are, you seem to need to hear it a little more." Sherlock's breath was fast and heavy on the side of John's neck. "Do you understand?"

After a beat, he felt Sherlock's head nod in affirmation under his hand. John felt a shudder run through Sherlock's body and smiled. He took his hand from Sherlock's hair and clutched a handful of the bed sheet instead. He summoned his best Captain's voice, low and firm.

"Now move."

Sherlock snarled as he surrendered his self-control to John.

xxx

The rain had cleared during the night, and the downstairs hallway was washed in the soft light of early morning as John made his way, rumpled and barefoot, from the dining room back toward his and Sherlock's bedroom with two steaming mugs of tea.

He met Greg at the foot of the wide, arcing staircase. He was dressed in what John thought of as his "inspector uniform"—dark trousers, navy blazer, white and blue checked button-up—and wheeling a large suitcase behind him. His shoulders slumped. His face was pasty and tense.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

John frowned, craning his neck a little to look out the window at the entrance of the house. He could only see a sliver of the front garden from where he stood, but that sliver included the bonnet of one of Mycroft's cars and the long legs of the driver. "With Mycroft?"

"No," Greg said quietly. "Alone."

* * *

xxx

* * *

_Mycroft and Sherlock's first duet is Dvořák's Romance for violin and piano, Op. 11_

_Their second duet is Fauré's Romance for violin and piano, Op. 28_

_Enjoy! :D_

* * *

xxx


	6. Chapter 6

**A NICE PLACE TO VISIT**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Mycroft was standing in the middle of his bedroom staring at a bare spot on the beige-painted wall when John Watson burst into the room. He was still in his pyjamas, which sported a freshly-sloshed tea stain, and his face was livid. Although there had been a few close calls in the past, John had never actually punched Mycroft, but everything deserved a first time. He waited, unmoving, to see if this would be that first time.

John halted in front of him in a tense parade rest, sucked in a deep, impatient breath through his nose, and tilted his head. "What did you do?" he clipped out.

Mycroft smoothed the waistcoat of his pinstripe suit down, even though it was perfectly pressed, and responded to John's menacing glare with a cool lift of his brows. "To what are you referring?"

"You know what I'm fucking _referring_ to. Greg just left. Looking like it was Christmas Day and his puppy died. But I expect you know that already."

He hadn't, as a matter of fact, known that had Greg left—but not a shiver of his eyelid would betray his ignorance of that information. He could picture him, sitting grimly in the back of the BMW, moving farther and farther away. He had been expecting it, but he didn't want to know when it happened. His resolve was only so strong. The house staff might have tried to contact him, but to prevent any interruption of his misery, he had taken the most drastic of measures: he shut off his mobile phone. He might have heard the car pull out of the drive, but he had firmly shut his casement windows earlier to block out the aggressively cheerful chorus of morning birdsong. "I assure you, John, that Detective Inspector Lestrade's departure was his own decision."

John's jaw tightened. "And I'm asking what you did to make him leave. Because I _know_ it was you, Mycroft."

"It's really none of your concern." Mycroft put a little more ice in his voice, but he already despaired of being easily rid of John's presence. The man was nothing if not tenacious.

"It is my concern. It's very much my concern. Greg's my _friend_. And you…" John sighed and ran a hand over the taut lines creasing his forehead. "…God help me, you're practically _my_ brother now."

Mycroft blinked before he could stop himself at this sudden acquisition of a second brother. He could barely manage just the one, for heaven's sake. Caught off guard, he turned to disparagement. "I see your loyalties are as misplaced as ever."

John's smile would have been pleasant if not for the fierce focus in his eyes. "I'll ask you once more…nicely…what did you say to him?"

He was _irritatingly _tenacious. Mycroft swallowed tightly and looked down his nose at John, who apparently now thought of Mycroft as a _brother_. Practically_. _"I simply told him the truth."

"What truth?"

"That our…" he looked away uncomfortably, "…_liaison_ would be at and end upon our return to London."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mycroft. _Why_? You were doing well." John's eyes flashed his frustration. "Well, of course you _would_ have to try to bollocks it up. You're a Holmes."

Mycroft frowned at this slight upon his competence. "John, it's for the best. A man in my position—"

"Is still a _man_, Mycroft. I really want to hear fuck all about _your position_ right now. Wait, let me guess." He licked his lips. "You're at the part where you couldn't _possibly_ have a relationship _and_ be the person you need to be in order do your work. Am I right? God, you're both _idiots_."

Mycroft scowled fiercely, all effort at concealing his reactions abandoned, as John reduced his hard-won devotion to duty to a gibe and a smirk. Oh, yes, he _was_ very much like a brother after all. He sharpened his tone, and spoke aloud the set of sentences that he had forced himself to repeat over and over in his mind since his conversation with Greg. "_My position_ requires certain sacrifices. Sentiment has no place in my life. I let myself forget that. That was a mistake. I have corrected it."

John's eyes narrowed. "Since when do _you_ make sacrifices? I thought you played to win. If you don't like the rules, change them. Isn't that what you do?"

Mycroft nearly spluttered. He had expected condemnation for disinterest or cruelty—_cold, heartless_—but John was challenging Mycroft Holmes' _gamesmanship_?

John walked slowly toward him, pushing, goading, challenging his territory. "Where's your _fight_, Mycroft?" he asked softly.

As a smaller man, John Watson really should have been less intimidating, but at this distance he gave Mycroft the distinct impression of a predator baring teeth far too near his throat. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Tenacious, loyal, and—damn the man to all nine circles of hell and back—was he _right_? A swell of panic rose in Mycroft's throat. He played from the tower while men like John…and Greg...fought on the ground. He was ill-equipped for this ground-war of emotion where his weaknesses were so easily overwhelmed by their strengths. _I've already lost. _He lashed out in fear. "One cannot resolve _every_ situation with a brawl," he sneered. "There are circumstances under which the correct course of action is one of restraint and discretion. You know little of such concepts, I expect."

"Discretion. By far the kindest word for cowardice." John's smile was pure mockery. "Don't you think?"

Mycroft hissed through his teeth as he was buffeted by a wave of shame, because in truth he knew no man of greater courage or innate understanding than John Watson.

"The Mycroft I know would never just _give up_ on something he wanted," John, unfazed and confident of his advantage, continued his strafing run on Mycroft's internal defenses. "So the question is: do you still want him?"

_Yes. Desperately. Yes. But it doesn't matter. I can't. I don't know how._

As Mycroft stared at John, mouth agape as he struggled to voice a response over his internal turmoil, Sherlock—master of good timing that he was—appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a bed sheet. "John, what are you doing? Where's my tea? You were getting tea." He shuffled into the room, rubbing at his hair sleepily.

"We were just having a chat," John informed him in an aggravatingly calm voice, stepping back from Mycroft slightly. "Greg left this morning. Mycroft's chucked him."

Sherlock paused behind John and yawned. "Oh, of course he has. He's an idiot."

John pursed his lips and looked at the floor. Under the circumstances, Mycroft recognized his refrain from comment as a wise choice.

Sherlock sighed one of his most dramatic sighs. With one hand still clutching his sheet, Sherlock wrapped his other arm with slow deliberation around John's chest and pulled him close. His eyes were intent on Mycroft's. "We can have good things, too, Mycroft. Even us."

Mycroft's head jerked back as if the wave of emotions churning through his mind had physical force. _Why would Sherlock say such a thing? What does he want from me? What do they all want from me? What do they know that I don't? _Panic reached deep into in his throat again and fluttered its fingers in his chest. Mycroft swallowed down on it hard. "What if it's too late?"

"It might be," John, smiling up at Sherlock, conceded with an inappropriate lack of concern. "But give him a chance, yeah?"

Sherlock returned John's besotted gaze, openly, right in front of his brother, as if it were the most natural, acceptable, obvious thing in the world to do—to care for someone.

_Oh._

Mycroft drew a deep breath and took his mobile from his suit pocket, powered it back on, and dialed the driver's number. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time as he waited for the connection to go through. They had not been gone long enough yet to reach either the nearest train station or the airport.

The driver answered.

"Nicolas…bring him back. Now."

xxx

Greg flung the door of the villa open. He was hoping for a satisfying crack of wood against wall, but the hinges were tight enough to deny him even that pleasure. John and Sherlock were frozen in the entry hall, John with his hand extended, obviously just about to open the door himself.

John's eyes widened when he saw Greg's face. "Er, hi…again. We were just…leaving. Greg, look, we—"

Greg pinned them with a withering glare in response to this inanity, and John's mouth shut immediately.

Sherlock peered at him, almost equally wide-eyed, over the top of John's head.

"Where?" he growled at them through clenched teeth. His throat had gone hoarse from swearing at Nicolas, who had turned the car around in the middle of the road upon receiving a not-so-mysterious phone call and deposited him back at the fucking villa with no fucking explanation. Greg had almost reached over the seat and shaken him until his fucking scared-looking eyes popped out of his head just so he could stuff them into his fucking silent mouth. He'd tried to leave with a shred of his dignity still intact, but fuck dignity. Fuck Mycroft Holmes.

"Library. He's in the library."

"Out of the way." Greg pushed past John and Sherlock and stalked down the hallway.

He flung the library door open as well.

Mycroft stood at the side of his desk in his fucking three-piece suit, with his fucking hair combed into place and a calm fucking expression, fingertips resting oh-so-lightly on top of the polished mahogany.

"Well?" Greg's upper lip curled in a snarl and he spread his arms wide. "You summoned me? Here I am."

Mycroft took a step toward him, not away as a man who valued the free flow of air through his windpipe really should. "Just listen. Please."

"You want another go? Is that it?"

"I understand if you won't." His voice was subdued. "I do realize that I…don't deserve it."

Greg ground his back teeth together. "And if I don't? You'll just haul me back again."

"No. But I beg that you will give me this chance to speak."

"Oh, _you're_ begging _me_ now?" Greg scoffed.

"That is precisely what I am doing. _Please_."

"I'm _not_ asking you what you want. I've asked you that before, and it didn't end well, if you recall."

Mycroft hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not your fucking yo-yo. I'm not your fucking _toy_."

Mycroft reached for him. "Greg…"

"Do you want to keep that hand?" he snapped, to stop the ache from hearing his name in Mycroft's voice.

Mycroft dropped his arm. His eyes looked especially blue this morning, earnest, _vulnerable_, and Greg hated him for a moment. He didn't have the _right_ to look _vulnerable_.

_Damn it. DAMN it. _Greg settled his hands on his hips and jutted his chin out belligerently. "Fine. I'm listening."

xxx

Sherlock sprawled on the garden bench on his back, letting a hand dangle near the top of the grass below. He could smell the residue of rain still in the grass and in the earth beneath. A light breeze mingled scents of lilac and thyme with the honey-lime smell of the flowering linden tree shading his bench. He blinked up at dark green tatter-edged leaves that fluttered in the soft, slanted sunlight. The garden was cool and fragrant and peaceful this morning. He frowned at it.

John was wandering idly, making random patterns in the grass. His trainers and the hem of his jeans were getting wet. He didn't seem to care. He liked it here, even though nothing dangerous happened. He relaxed. Looked happy. _Was_ happy. Happiness. Sherlock frowned at that, too. Ridiculous word. Simple-minded concept.

"Are we just going to sit here all day, waiting?" Sherlock lamented.

"What do you want to do?"

"Go home." John had thought Sherlock was happy here. He wasn't happy _here_. He was happy _with John_. A cerulean blue butterfly tumbled through the air just above his face. Sherlock frowned at it. Yes, _fine_, he was happy.

"You know there wasn't time to pack our things."

John hadn't even given him time to shower. They had showered last night, of course, but he had been looking forward to another one. With John. "Mycroft can send them on."

"Absolutely not. I'm not leaving my laptop here. Or…our bag?" He gave Sherlock a significant look, just in case Sherlock had somehow failed to register the fact that John was referring to the bag containing their preferred lubricant and a small assortment of sex toys. Although it was seldom evidenced in his blog, John could be surprisingly creative.

"Go in and get them."

"No, Sherlock…no. We're giving them some privacy. We can go home later. Or tomorrow. All right?" He sat down, wincing slightly, on the end of Sherlock's bench and shoved at his legs. "Budge up."

"Fine." Sherlock swung himself to a sitting position and sighed mournfully. John petted his leg in reflexive response. Sherlock leaned his shoulder into John's. Strong, solid. He pushed a little, testing. John neither gave ground nor pushed back. Instead he put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him closer. John loved him. John _loved_ him. This was the man who had practically chanted his love for Sherlock while Sherlock thrust and thrashed and howled into his slick body like some deranged beast. He shivered under the forgiving caresses of the dappled sunlight.

"So I'll ask one more time. What do _you_ want to do?"

Sherlock shifted their positions so that he could wrap his arm around John and watch his face. "Take you home. Taste you. Swallow you." John's breath caught and his pupils widened. He licked his lips. Sherlock smiled behind his eyes. It was easy. Because he meant it.

"If I'd known you could be _this_ insatiable…" John mumbled.

"Keep you." That creature John brought out in him frightened him sometimes, but it didn't frighten John. Should it? Should he keep it caged, chained, muzzled? Sherlock wasn't even sure he could, any more. John wasn't afraid. John was brave. John didn't think things through.

John snuggled into him. "I'm not going anywhere."

John loved him. He accepted that. But John didn't think things through. He had options. John could live in the city or the desert or the countryside. John could be a doctor or a soldier or a…husband. Or a father. Sherlock rapidly blinked those words away. Sherlock didn't have options for how to live his life, because he _was_ only one thing: a consulting detective in London. There was John and there was the work. There was nothing else for him. Nothing else that _mattered_.

He glanced toward the villa. Almost nothing else.

"Stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere," John repeated, his voice low and firm.

Sherlock would have pulled him through his ribs and into his chest if he could. It didn't matter if they broke. Instead he put his nose in John's hair and inhaled deeply. Better than thyme or lilacs or honey. _Don't think things through. Stay with me. _

John was saying something. "I was proud of what you said in there. With Mycroft."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yes, you did."

"You're always proud of me." Not true, of course. Sometimes he was angry. Sometimes he was embarrassed.

"I'm occasionally proud of you."

"Always."

"Often."

"Always," Sherlock insisted. When John grinned, _then_ Sherlock felt proud of himself. The wild creature within him was proud of him, too. They both loved when John smiled. _We can have good things. Even us._

Perhaps he could even _be_ more than one thing...for John. _With_ John. Somehow. And it wouldn't be shamming. He watched a small, fuzzy bee buzz lazily around one of the bright, fragrant linden blossoms. Perhaps they could even come back to a place like this. Someday. John liked it here.

"It's agreed." Sherlock nodded at John.

"That I'm always proud of you?" John asked with his Sherlock-humoring smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Sherlock thought for a moment while he kissed John's forehead and temple. "We could go see the prisons at _Château de Tarascon_. It's not far."

As he'd hoped, John looked pleased that he'd offered a serious suggestion. "All right, anything you want. Is it open to the public?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged. "What does that matter?"

John chuckled quietly. "You're right, Sherlock. It _is_ always."

"Always."

xxx

True to his word, Greg was listening. Not talking. Just listening. He was rumpled and rough, unshaven, hair uncombed. His mouth was a line. His eyes no longer held their familiar playfulness, warmth, or willingness to trust…only a weary caution. Beneath that caution, Greg's expression was unreadable. Even to Mycroft, who ought to be able to read anyone. Greg Lestrade confounded his perceptions, his reasoning, his self-control. Even as Mycroft's mind was racing to vet his words, his emotions no longer cared to be scrutinized for propriety and they rushed out unedited, raw, vitally truthful.

Mycroft stood like a statue as he spoke, barely able to allow his chest to expand far enough to draw breath to speak. His mouth was dry. His head hurt.

"I didn't…don't _want_ to give you up. There has not been one moment since I saw you again in Aix when I did not want you. I've never wanted something...someone...so much. But I _am_ my work, and sometimes that means I must do…and _be_ terrible things. A terrible brother. A terrible man."

Greg watched him impassively.

"You're a _good_ man, and good things have no place in my life. I believed that. I still believe that. Or…I don't know any more. Sherlock said—Greg, about Sherlock…what he said our first day here wasn't true. That he doesn't need you anymore. He does, you know. Whatever happens between us, I hope you'll remember that. It's not his fault."

Still Greg showed no reaction, and to fill the dreadful silence, Mycroft blundered on.

"You called me cold. It's...it's true, but it's worse than that. I'm…like the wind-up doll in _Les contes d'Hoffmann_. I've been dancing with you, and given you…magic glasses to make you think I'm real. But when you lose them you'll see I'm mechanical, hollow. I can only be what I am. And yet...I want you. Not…" His eyes dropped, and he forced himself to raise them again. "Not just the sex. I want _all_ of you."

"I…want you to…wind me up." He tried to smile at his little joke, but he couldn't. He felt his mouth form what was probably a disturbing parody of a smile. "You do…_wind me up_ so well. It's…wonderful. I never imagined…. But I should not ask that of you. What can I offer in return? Nothing. And still I…I will ask. _Because_ I am a terrible man, I will ask it."

Greg swallowed. His eyes were very dark.

"You should refuse, obviously, and I expect you _will_ refuse, but I wish, if nothing else, to do you the honor of—"

"Mycroft," growled Greg, "for the love of God, _shut up_."

And suddenly Greg was a blur of motion holding Mycroft in his arms.

Mycroft was, in fact, almost knocked off his feet by the impact of Greg's body against his. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in the crook of Greg's shoulder, gasping in his warmth. "You're making a mistake," he warned him urgently, clutching at the rough synthetic fabric of his blazer to make sure he couldn't get away.

"Maybe." Greg's voice was husky in his ear. "Wouldn't be my first. And I said _shut up_."

He cradled Mycroft's head in between his hands and kissed him, deeply and relentlessly, until Mycroft's fear became gratitude and his gratitude became tenderness and his tenderness became passion. He sucked and nipped at Greg's mouth and tongue, rubbed his lips against the rough stubble on Greg's jaw. He was so hungry, so hungry for this, just this. He was _starving_.

When Greg released him, his lips were swollen and his eyes were dark. "There now. You don't seem _so_ cold to me."

"More," demanded Mycroft.

Greg made a strange noise, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards across the room until his back hit the bookcase. Several books toppled to the floor, one glancing off his shoulder, and then Greg's mouth was on his again. They grabbed at each other's clothing, skin, hair, and then Greg's thigh was between his legs, and then Greg's hand was between his legs too.

In spite of his ardor, Mycroft's cock was still mostly flaccid. His cringe of fear at disappointing Greg didn't help matters at all, but Greg hitched up the loose fabric at the crotch of his trousers and cupped his balls instead. He locked his eyes to Mycroft's and squeezed…just a little. Certainly enough to get his attention.

"Mycroft, if you ever throw me away again, I won't come back."

"I understand," Mycroft breathed carefully.

Greg glanced toward the open library door.

"They're all out," Mycroft whispered. His eyes felt huge. His heart was racing. "I gave them the day off."

"Unfasten your trousers."

Mycroft fumbled at the buttons of his flies.

When they were open, Greg stroked a hand gently through his hair and plunged the other into his pants. Mycroft sucked in a breath. Greg's fingers curved underneath his balls, barely touching, tickling their fur.

He groaned and clawed at the knot of his tie. "I have to get this off. Take this off. I want you to…see me." Mycroft said, his voice shaky, waving a hand at his suit. He felt vulnerable, terrified, but it now seemed as urgent to show himself as it had once felt to hide himself.

Greg closed his fingers lightly around Mycroft's balls, holding them now, leaned forward and kissed his mouth softly, and then used his free hand to assist Mycroft with removing his tie. It fell to the floor. Mycroft slid the chain of his pocket watch through its button hole, removed the watch from its pocket, and handed it to Greg, who placed it carefully on one of the bookshelves. All the while, Greg kept his eyes on Mycroft's face and his hand in Mycroft's pants, lightly cupping his balls, sometimes with a gentle squeeze or tug, sometimes with the faint touch of his nails to the skin at the back of his scrotum. Together they unbuttoned Mycroft's waistcoat and pushed it open. They worked their way, fingers tangling, down the buttons of his shirt until it parted to reveal the tufts of wiry ginger curls on his pale, freckled chest and the soft skin of his stomach.

The process was awkward, painstakingly slow, and silent, and the most intimate thing Mycroft had ever experienced. He could not recall when he had last felt so aware of his own body, or so safe in surrendering it in its entirety to another person's care. Greg inspected him intently, lips parted, his eyes blatantly displaying approval and desire. Mycroft's jacket, waistcoat, and shirt hung open. His trousers gaped at the flies. By the time Greg finally dragged his fingertips through the hair on his chest and down the exposed strip of his belly Mycroft was so aroused he could hardly see. His balls felt hot and tight in Greg's gently milking hand.

Greg's hand moved to his nipple, brushed the hardened peak with his thumb as his gaze roamed Mycroft's exposed skin. "As I suspected…human." His eyes flashed with warmth and playfulness and Mycroft was afraid for a moment he would burst into tears at what might be his exoneration. "No, no. It's okay," Greg whispered, seeing the depth of Mycroft's emotion. He soothed his lips and his face and his foolish nose with kisses and just as Mycroft thought he would be able to control himself again, Greg crooked and slid a finger back along his perineum.

With a cry that startled him, Mycroft bucked his hips and grabbed at Greg's arm, trying to hold it in place so he could rub his cock against it. Friction. He needed friction. He needed Greg. He heard his own pounding heartbeat and Greg's short, heavy breaths. He smelled old books and sweat. God, he needed to come. He was already undone, he was lost, and he needed Greg's hands on him and he needed to come and he needed Greg.

Greg's hand stilled in his pants and he whined softly in frustration. "Put your hands over your head, Mycroft."

Mycroft's hands released Greg's arm and rose, more under the control of Greg's voice than Mycroft's nervous system, crossing over the top of his head. Greg reached up and held them against the bookshelf and shifted his other hand to encircle his shaft. "Oh," Mycroft huffed.

Greg kissed him, tugged at his lower lip with his teeth and rubbed his palm over the head of Mycroft's cock, smearing it with the moisture he found there.

"Oh," Mycroft gasped again, voice breaking, thinking he might burst, shaking with anticipation.

"Mycroft?" Greg nipped at his earlobe and the skin on his neck. "You don't have to be quiet anymore." He squeezed his hand around Mycroft's cock. "I want to hear you now."

"Oh. God." Mycroft pressed his head back and stared raptly through his lashes at Greg's intent face. Greg held his wrists firmly in place and began to stroke him, fast and rough, just the way wanted to be handled and never knew how badly he had wanted it. The volume of his cries rose in a crescendo of helpless pleasure in sync with each upstroke of Greg's hand. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh Oh Oh! Ohhhh!" He came with a loud, harsh, thick, protracted groan that lit Greg's eyes with a fierce satisfaction.

Greg barely caught him, messily, under his arms when his knees gave way, guiding him into a gentle slide to the floor. He sat beside him and pulled Mycroft's back against his chest, stroking at his hair with his cleaner hand and murmuring pleased, comforting sounds—probably words—into his ear. Mycroft panted against him for several minutes, dazed and blinking, before he was finally able to look down and take in the sticky wreckage of his clothing and body. He tried delicately to tuck himself back into his semen-dampened pants—God, it was everywhere—and shuddered at the clammy sensation.

Greg snickered in his ear and wiped his soiled palm on the bottom of Mycroft's open shirt.

Mycroft craned his neck around to cast a disapproving eye at him. He feared the result was more bashful than baleful, though. "Greg, you're…a terrible man."

Greg wriggled his arms around Mycroft's chest and hugged him tightly. "Don't you ever forget it."

xxx

After an afternoon and evening of what he could only describe as _wonderful surprises_, Mycroft could not stop himself from humming. He was humming as he rounded the corner to the kitchens, under instructions to procure "a really fucking fantastic midnight snack, with chocolate," and ran almost directly into John Watson exiting the room.

Mycroft clutched his dressing gown around himself as quickly as he could, but there was no way someone with even John's limited powers of observation could fail to notice the silk tie—a lovely grey with purple medallions—tied loosely around his bare neck and resting in the light nest of hair on his chest. Nor did the dressing gown conceal his disastrously-mussed hair or vivid orange socks.

John's cheeks were brightly flushed, his hair was also sticking out in all directions, and he was wearing boxer shorts and t-shirt bearing a depiction of Cézanne's _Pyramid of Skulls_. He was carrying a small jar of honey, a large bottle of olive oil, and an egg.

They both froze in place, eyes widening in horror.

"Evening," John said.

"John," Mycroft nodded.

John smirked.

Mycroft continued on his way, humming.

xxx

Although they had all planned on returning to London that next day anyway, a particularly innovative triple murder in Kensington had tempted Sherlock and John away on the earliest flight that morning. Greg had kept his mobile pressed to his ear since he'd arisen from Mycroft's bed, barking questions and instructions to his team in Scotland Yard.

There was also a rather troubling situation brewing in Hong Kong, but Mycroft made no comment on the specifics of that matter to Greg. He stepped aside periodically to ensure his calls and texts remained appropriately private. A Royal Air Force helicopter was waiting on the south lawn to whisk him away for urgent negotiations with interested parties.

Their belongings were now all packed, the staff graciously thanked and provided generous gratuities, and the villa closed. Only Nicolas, who Mycroft noticed maintained a wary distance from Greg as he transferred their bags to the car, remained behind to drive Greg to the airport in Marseille.

"I'll call you back," Greg, pacing back and forth across the driveway in rolled-up shirt sleeves, gravel crunching under his heels, finally murmured into his phone. He looked around for Mycroft and found him waiting patiently in the shade near the front of the house, leaning slightly on the handle of his umbrella. "Are we ready, then?" Greg asked as he joined him.

Mycroft's breath of laughter was a mix of humor and trepidation. Already he was anticipating being back in London—although he had maintained management of his governmental affairs during his stay in Provence, he didn't have the same sense of the _theatre_ of it all that he enjoyed at home. Now he was eager to feel again with his own hands the velvet of those curtains drawing open and closed upon each act. In this ongoing drama, he wrote the script, he managed the production, he cast the players. From his position behind the scenes, he neither required nor received applause. The play was the thing.

And then there was Greg, leading man and co-author in a _new_ production, a _romance_…and a _mystery_. No longer able to remain safely behind the curtain, Mycroft was suddenly thrust on-stage, into the spotlight no less, uncertain of his cues or his lines or what costume he should be wearing. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Greg was watching him closely, a small smile playing on his lips. "It wasn't meant to be a trick question." He looked Mycroft up and down. He had worn his light grey three-piece suit this morning. Greg ran two fingers down the edge of his red silk tie, fiddled with the top button of his waistcoat. "You look good. Very…official." Greg nodded toward his umbrella. "Still expecting rain?"

"It is always going to rain," Mycroft intoned with a glint of self-aware humor in his eye.

Greg sighed and glanced at his watch, and then regretfully toward the car. "So…you'll call me…when you can, yeah?"

Mycroft touched his arm. "Of course." He pulled Greg in for a short but determined kiss. "As soon as possible."

As he stepped aboard the waiting helicopter, Mycroft looked back over his shoulder at the villa, then at Greg's car moving down the road on the way to the airport. Was he ready? He lifted his chin. Whether he was or not, he would not choose cowardice again. He would not fail again. Beneath the _thwump_ of the rotors he heard the sweep of the theatre's proscenium arch curtain being drawn back for the beginning of his next scene.

* * *

xxx

* * *

_H, I kept the Louis XIV fauteuil fluid-free just for you._

_I am planning (at least) one more story in this series...in case you want to know what happens back in London. :-)_

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

xxx


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